


Piece By Broken Piece

by M00n_Slippers



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Badass brothers, Banter, Blüdhaven, Brotherly Bonding, DC Comics Rebirth, Dick is hopeless at selfies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason-Centric, Not just feels, Support Group, mature themes, references to past trauma/abuse, the bromance is real, there's action and mystery too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M00n_Slippers/pseuds/M00n_Slippers
Summary: When Dick found out about Shawn Tsang's support group for ex-villains, he realized there was someone close to him that could probably benefit from it. He's not sure if bringing his brother Jason, the sometimes-villain sometimes-vigilante Red Hood, to the Run-Offs meetings was one of his best ideas ever or his worst, but he does know that when the shit hits the fan in Blüdhaven, it's good to have Jason guarding his back.





	1. Challenge Accepted

**Author's Note:**

> Why this story does not already exist, I do not know, but I'm here to rectify this glaring omission. Warnings, if you are triggered by mental health topics then I don't know what to tell you except probably don't read this. There will also be a generous amount of cursing in scenes with Jason and Svoboda, so be prepared. Probably no sex scenes, but if one is demanded I might be persuaded. I don't have a beta, so have fun deciphering my mistakes, though I'll try to make them as few as possible. I have not read any of the original Dick Grayson in Blüdhaven stuff so don't expect to see any of that. You're welcome, or sorry, depending on how that makes you feel. 
> 
> Most of the setting is Rebirth based, but I'll add other things in as I feel like it. This story kicks off roughly after the Run-Offs arc in Nightwing but before the next arc starts, all the RHATO stuff is pre-smart Bizarro. Primary divergence from canon is going to be that Tim isn't MIA in this fic. Any other divergences will be explained as they come up. There will be references to RHATO, but I don't think Bizarro or Artemis will show up in person, same with other members of the bat family, but that's not definitive. The only relationships will be canon ones, unless I change my mind later, which isn't impossible. 
> 
> I have a rough idea of what is going to happen but we'll see how things go, my plans generally take focus as I write. Also I have no schedule for chapter updates and I won't even pretend I do because it would be nefarious lies. I apologize for that. I hope you all enjoy reading.

Dick decided the best way to broach the subject with Jason was one-on-one over a meal in a neutral place. Preferably with a beer in hand to relax them both and smooth things along. This seemed like it should be easy to achieve but it was more difficult than one might expect.

He'd failed many times in the last two weeks to invite his errant brother to socialize with him, Jason dodging with half-assed excuses he suspected were just to test his brother's resolve. Dick wore him out through sheer repetition, finally securing a promise of dinner at a restaurant and sports bar located at the edge of Robinsville in Gotham City. Of course it rained on the day Dick chose to meet up, because that was just typical, but at least it meant his chosen venue was underpopulated and they didn't have to wait for a table. Not that Dick Grayson _Wayne_ ever had to wait for a table in Gotham if he didn't want to, but he preferred not to pull that card without necessity.

Indoors it was too loud to talk, but the covered outdoor seating area was deserted and they took a table with a view of golf, hockey and basketball on the screens scattered about the fenced-off porch. As they sat together eating onion rings and spicy buffalo chicken wings to the sounds of sports, rain and traffic, Dick tried to keep the conversation on safe topics—how Roy and Wally were doing with the Titans in New York, what kind of trouble Damien was getting into, Dick's last date with Shawn Tsang. And with that perfect segue, Dick gathered his courage to invite Jason to a meeting of the group calling themselves the Run-Offs.

If looks could kill, Dick would already be a steaming pile of vaporized remains. “I do _not_ need therapy,” Jason snarled.

Actually, Dick was pretty sure Jason needed _all_ the therapy, but there was no way in hell he would accept it, not to mention the question of who was qualified to give it to him. On the whole, Dick thought he had a pretty good compromise on the situation though.

“It's not therapy, it's a support group,” Dick explained, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

Even at the best of times, talking to Jason was like diffusing a time bomb when every wire was a booby-trap and the countdown accelerated and paused at random. You never knew what could set him off, but this was definitely a touchy subject. Jason didn't like to admit he had problems to his family and he _definitely_ didn't like anything that would remind him of his mistreatment in Arkham Asylum. But while Jason's fear of therapy was understandable, he did still need it. Or something close, at least

That said, trying to get Dick's biggest little brother to attend Shawn's support group for ex-villains in Blüdhaven was going to be a serious challenge but a worthy one. If he managed the feat, it would be good for everyone: good for Jason to get some help, good for the other ex-villains to have more peers, good for Shawn to know her program was reaching more people and good for Dick to maybe, one day, talk to his brother without feeling it might cost him a limb. The only problem was getting him to agree to it.

“Same fucking difference,” Jason said, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The sight made Dick wince. When the cigarettes came out it was a surefire sign that Jason's mood was deteriorating.

“Just think of it as a favor to me and Shawn,” Dick suggested, trying a different angle. “Not for you, but for the other group members. It would be good for them to know there are other villains out there who've reformed and done some good.”

If Dick hadn't realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth, he certainly did when Jason's fist slammed into their table. The blow rattled their beers and knocked a glass ketchup bottle onto the concrete floor where it cracked along one side, bleeding crimson tomato sauce.

“I was _never_ a fucking villain, Dick!” Jason spat, and the man looking back at him was no longer his brother but the Red Hood, the most brutally effective crime lord the streets of Gotham had ever seen. While usually he hardly noticed, it was at once impossible to forget that Jason had the edge on Dick in both height, muscle-mass and firepower, and that Dick had once seen the Red Hood punch a man hard enough to break his own hand and then _kept punching_ because even Bruce couldn't fight through pain like Jason could.

The man he'd punched had died from the first blow.

Jason stabbed a finger at him, his expression livid. “You and Bruce look down on me from your moral-fucking-high-ground because I'm not afraid to get blood on my hands, but that does not make me one of _them._ I'm not going to sit in your kumbaya club or whatever the fuck it is and pretend I'm ashamed of what I did, because I'm not! The _only_ reason I don't kill anymore is out of respect for you all's delicate bat-sensibilities, and if you had any respect for _me_ , then you wouldn't be calling me a villain to my face. Not after all the shit I've done for you people.”

Dick felt the blood drain from of his body. He could admit that he was occasionally afraid of his brother but more often he was afraid _for_ his brother or afraid to lose him. And oh hell, was Dick losing him right now. He'd said the wrong thing and Jason would go back to hating him and it was all Dick's fault for pushing him.

“Jason, you're right,” Dick hastened to agree, holding up his hands in defense. “I'm sorry. That didn't come out how I meant it.”

Jason brought his cigarette to his mouth and lit up, the bright yellow flare illuminating the lines of rage on his face in the dull blue light of the dreary, rainy evening. The smoke leaving his mouth when he exhaled smelled like all of Dick's good intentions going up in flames.

When he spoke again, the accusation in Jason's voice cut him like a knife. “Well how the fuck _did_ you mean it, Dick? Because I really don't see any other interpretation.”

Dick ran clammy hands through his hair. Oh God, how was he going to dig himself out of this pit? How could he put this in a way that wouldn't make Jason feel defensive? A way that wouldn't make him feel Dick was blaming him or criticizing him?

This had always been the biggest stumbling block when it came to Jason's relationship with the bat family. One had to be careful, _so careful,_ with their words because if they could be interpreted negatively then Jason would do so every time; his traumas made him incapable of anything else. Jason's life had been one of pain, betrayal, abuse and abandonment from the moment he was born to the present day. The constant assault had left him a tattered mess of fear and hurt that he protected by lashing out at any and every threat with anger, fists and bullets. Jason saw enemies everywhere, was always looking for the next dagger aimed at his heart, even from the people who loved him. Trying to break through his walls was a treacherous process, and of all the skills Batman had trained Dick in, psychiatric counseling hadn't been one of them.

“It's just...” Dick began, trying to find the means to communicate his snare of thoughts. It felt impossible when half the words that came to him were taboo, but he couldn't mess this up. It could mean the life or death of his relationship with his brother.

Finally he said, “Most of these guys weren’t really villains either, you know? They were just kids who were led astray, taken advantage of, or had a bad home life or did the wrong thing with good intentions. You grew up in Crime Ally so you know all about that stuff, you've seen it. Seen how your situation can make it difficult to do anything but the wrong thing, and how that can just stick with you, right? Am I making sense?”

Dick waited with bated breath, his pulse jumping in his throat as Jason listened, considering his words in silence while the TVs blared, car tires splashed through puddles and the rain slid off the roof in sheets. He analyzed Jason's posture, saw how his body near vibrated with barely restrained emotion, teeth clenched and shoulders tensed as if waiting for an attack while his fingers manipulated his cig with nervous energy.

After what seemed like a long time of Jason staring into his eyes on hyper-alert, he finally seemed to relax a fraction and sat back in his chair, no longer actively aggressive. “Yeah. I guess,” he admitted with a sigh.

Dick started breathing again, but knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. “And maybe,” he continued carefully, “you can admit that you were previously at a place in your life where you felt you had to do certain things that you now regret or feel wasn't the best decision.”

Jason took a long drag on his cigarette and released it, looking as if something in Dick's words had resonated. “Like...trying to kill Tim and Damian.”

Dick blinked in surprised. He hadn't expected Jason to volunteer anything specific; asking him to admit he had regrets was already shaky ground. This had to mean Dick was getting through to him, right? He could hope.

“Yes, exactly!” he encouraged. “This is just a group for people who are trying to stay on the right path. To not fall backwards. To keep making good decisions.”

Jason fidgeted in his chair, the expression on his face rapidly flickering between a front of nonchalance and something that looked to Dick unexpectedly and heartrendingly like terror. He didn't like seeing that kind of helplessness on his brother's face, it reminded him of every pain he'd failed to protect Jason from.

Jason took a shaky breath and looked at him. “So...what actually happens at this circle-jerk? Do I have to, like, talk about feelings and shit? Because I'm not doing that.”

Dick bit his lip. _Keep it up, Dickie,_ he told himself, _Jason's actual_ _ly_ _listening, you've got this._ “Only if you're comfortable with it,” he assured. “Honestly, if you just sat in on a few sessions, that would really mean a lot to me and Shawn. And I'll be there, so it's not like you'll be alone with strangers.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I'm not a kid. I'm not going to flip out if I'm not holding big brother's hand.”

Despite his words, Dick thought Jason was privately relieved to know he would be there, so he decided to emphasize that fact. “I'm just saying that I'm not going to throw you to the wolves. I've got your back.”

The look on Jason's face remained skeptical.

 _You've got this,_ his mind repeated like a mantra. Dick decided to paint a positive picture for Jason and throw in a little incentive. “Look, you can have a leisurely drive down from Gotham early in the afternoon. We can go out for dinner somewhere, just hang out, then go to the session for just an hour or so, and when that's done you can go on patrol with me, crash at my place, and have an easy drive back the next day. It'll be fun, right? You and me. When do we ever get to do stuff together? This can be _our_ thing.”

Jason chewed on the inside of his cheek, gaze drifting to the screen somewhere over Dick's shoulder running a Gotham Guardsmen away-game. As he ashed his cigarette over the wet railing of the porch with one hand, his other came up to nervously itch at a scar across his neck. Dick knew it was from one of Bruce's own batarangs and he tried not to visibly react to the sight of it.

Returning what was left of his cig to his lips, Jason sat back into his chair and flopped both his hands noisily into his lap. Suddenly he looked exhausted, the weight of his unceasing anxieties and endless rage leaving him tired in his very soul.

He took another shuddering breath, glancing back at Dick again, eyes overlarge and red-rimmed. “Okay. I...I'll go. I'll go to your...support thing.”

Dick took what seemed like his first real gasp of oxygen in twenty minutes and didn't even care that it was probably fifty-percent tar from Jason's secondhand smoke. Actually, was smoking even allowed out here? Whatever.

Elation permeated his being and Dick felt himself smile warmly as he reached across the table to squeeze Jason's shoulder. The man let him do it which was a gift. “Thank you, Jay,” Dick said, speaking from his heart. “Seriously, this means _so much_ to me _._ And I'm really looking forward to spending time with you.”

And it was true. When Jason wasn't being a mixed bag of drama and death-threats he was funny, clever, and more thoughtful than anyone in the family but maybe Cassandra, and it was a damn shame that only he, Bruce and Alfred knew that side of him. The way Jason handled the child-like Kryptonian clone Bizarro with kindness and patience proved to Dick that if Jason ever cared to compete he'd be serious competition for the title of favorite elder brother in the bat family.

Jason was also easily as good of back-up as any of the other Gotham vigilantes and even his own Titans. And he didn't want to play favorites, but of his brothers he liked Jason as his preferred partner in a fight. Tim was as good or better than Dick himself at investigations and Damian was a master at stealth, but Jason's solid bulk and almost supernaturally quick instincts were damned reassuring when you were surrounded by enemies. He was pretty handy with explosives, too.

After letting Dick have his emotional moment, Jason shrugged away the hand on his shoulder and looked out into the rainy night as if meeting Dick's gaze might break him wide open. His cigarette now burned down to the filter, he rubbed it out on the metal rail and tossed it in one of their empty food baskets.

“Yeah, well,” Jason said in something that superficially resembled his usual jaunty manner. “I plan on embarrassing you in front of your girl every chance I get, so be ready for that.”

The break in tension sent Dick into laughter. “It's fine, she already knows I'm a dork,” he said, unable to keep the grin from his face.

“And what kind of name is Shawn for a girl?” Jason questioned with an exaggerated look of suspicion that had Dick shaking his head in amusement. “If it's short for Shawna that's just fucking stupid. Who shortens their name just one letter? Why bother?”

“It's not, her name actually is Shawn,” he confirmed, but kept mum about the fact that he'd pondered something similar once.

“It's weird. That's all I'm saying.” Jason threw back the last of gulp of his beer and pushed the empty bottle to the middle of the table. “I bet she has some strange kinks. She probably wants to pound your ass with a dildo.”

Dick just sighed.

 

– – –

 

The very next morning saw Dick Grayson leaving the Wayne Manor bright and early to make the hour-plus long commute back to Blüdhaven in time for his job teaching gymnastics to troubled kids and teens at the very community center where he'd first met Shawn. What should have been a chore was spent singing to the radio and drumming on his steering wheel, high on cloud nine. He'd survived dinner with his occasionally homicidal little brother, and not only had no one died, but Jason had agreed to attend support group meetings. It was some kind of minor miracle which probably qualified Dick for sainthood or at least a Nobel peace prize and had him smiling all day even in the face of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

At work his good mood continued, causing him to be possibly a little overenthusiastic as he coached the kids through jumps on the springboard and had them sighing at how insufferably chatty and energetic he was being. They managed to survive his positivity and when the late afternoon classes were over, he released them to their guardians and walked over to the Chinese food place across the street for some takeout. Shawn was in talks to get her job as director back, but in the meantime Dick had picked up the slack and he hummed cheerfully through paperwork in the office, biding his time until the ex-villain's support group meeting at seven o'clock in the evening.

When Shawn appeared in the doorway twenty minutes before the hour, she rolled her eyes at Dick, who had noodles hanging from his mouth and said, “God, you're disgusting,” in a tone that sounded almost fond

Dick looked up from cataloging attendance records, his heart doing a ridiculous fluttering thing at the very sight of her, then slurped the rogue strands of chow mien and swallowed. “Sorry.”

Shawn rolled her eyes. Depositing a bag by the door, she entered and gave him a thorough inspection as he appreciated her figure in white capris and a black t-shirt with a graphic he knew she'd designed herself and had custom silk-screened.

“No, not that—though that is disgusting—you're practically glowing.” She wrinkled her nose and gestured to all of him. “Your just sitting there doing busy-work looking pleased as punch. Did something good happen to you since I last saw you? If that blind yoga teacher who lives one floor below you baked you cookies again just don't even tell me. I already have Detective Svoboda lurking outside my apartment, waiting for me to show my true colors or something. If I actually murder someone she'd figure it out for sure because I don't do subtle.”

Dick shook his head at his very unsubtle girlfriend's jealousy. “Beth was just thanking me for fixing her sink, she can't even know what I look like to be interested. Why do you always think she's trying to come-on to me?”

Shawn glared at him from over her glasses like he was an oblivious idiot. “Oh I don't know, maybe _because she is?_ She can just tell you're hot somehow with her yoga powers.”

He chuckled, feeling smug. Dick knew he was attractive and he didn't exactly hate being reminded, especially from Shawn. “You don't have to worry. I'm a one-woman-man. And anyway, she didn't bake me anything.”

Shawn made a sound of approval, walking over and kissing him lightly on the cheek, apparently appeased. “Alright. I give up, what is it then?” she asked, cocking her head in question and leaning against the desk.

“You'll hear it at the meeting,” he assured her with a secretive smile.

Shawn pouted, still curious. “Okay, fine, be that way Mister Mystery. It's in a few minutes anyway, so you're done with paperwork for the night,” she said then leaned over him to close out of some programs he'd been typing in and shut down the computer.

The action left Dick with a prime opening to poke at her waist, which he did because she was violently ticklish and he found it both charming and hilarious. She squealed and narrowly missed punching him in the face out of sheer reflex thrashing and then glared at him from behind her glasses while he snickered unrepentantly.

“You asshole! For that you set up the chairs by yourself!” Shawn declared, stabbing a finger irritatedly at the door.

He regretted nothing. “Yes, ma'am,” Dick said with a grin and a lazy salute. She slapped him playfully on the arm when he rose from the computer to follow her command.

Minutes later Dick had unfolded and arranged the necessary chairs in a loose circle and taken a seat at one end where Shawn had later joined him after threatening Dick with the beating of a lifetime if he tried to tickle her again. The two chatted mostly about the kids at the community center as the other members of the Run-Offs drifted in.

First was the other couple of the group, Pamela Sweigeld and her long-time boyfriend Brendan Li who went by Giz, the two practically joined at the hip as they greeted Dick and Shawn and took their customary seats with Pam next to Shawn with Giz on her open side. Next came Gorilla Grimm, his canines massive as he yawned from a long day working at the docks and took a seat pulled out slightly from the others to leave extra room on both sides for his huge body. Juan-Andrés Santos Suarez came in next, stowing his motorcycle helmet under his chair between Grimm and Giz, and just a moment later Randy Hanrahan completed the group, tipping his cowboy hat at the others as he took the chair next to Dick. When everyone was settled, Shawn pulled out a clipboard from her bag and opened the meeting.

“Alright, let's get started,” Shawn said, looking over her agenda and notes. “Last week we decided the topic would be 'challenges in the workplace'. This can be with relating to co-workers, informing your employer about your past, temptations to fall back into your old life that happen in our jobs, anything like that. Let's get a good discussion going with the difficulties we've come across and help each other with ways to cope and succeed.”

Dick listened sincerely as conversation developed. Though he'd never been a super-villain, he was sympathetic to the group's concerns and even found their issues related to problems he came across in his own life as a vigilante. The group had been together for a long time and didn't particularly need his encouragement to open up, but Dick liked to set a good example by sharing whenever he felt he had something to contribute.

“The weird thing is, most of my jobs have been really temporary, and usually a cover for the Nightwing thing or for Spyral,” Dick said. “Sometimes I wonder if I even _could_ do another job for very long. Even volunteering here at the center. I do really like it, and I don't plan to quit or leave Blüdhaven, but outside of you guys it's hard to connect with anyone else. When I do try it feels strange. I guess I'm afraid to get attached to anyone who isn't another vigilante or, well, ex-villain, like you guys. Everyone else just seems like they're in a different world.”

“Most of the regulars at the bar are muscle for gangs or bad guys, like I was,” Randy confessed to the group. “It's uncomfortable when I hear 'em talkin' about jobs they're pulling, makes me long for that old life, but I can't just tell 'em to stop, can I? They're customers. And I can't quit, neither. Who else is gonna hire an ex-con like me? I'm lucky ta have the job I've got, and knowing these guys is the only reason I've got it, but that don't make it any easier.”

Giz told them, “All my skills are with tech, so I don't have a choice but to do work with computers and the net. But that's kind of like being a compulsive gambler and working at a casino. Whenever there's a lull in work, I just wanna start snooping around to see what I can hack into and I'm already _right there_ , but I have to stop myself. So far I've always been able to, but shouldn't it get easier to resist every time I do? Because it doesn't seem that way, if anything it's harder.”

Shawn shared, “I love directing this center, and I love that I get to help kids make good choices, but when I'm told they're cutting our budget _again_ or someone belittles what I'm trying to do here, it's just so frustrating. I don't feel I'm doing enough and I ask myself, is this really making a difference? That's when I most think about going back to being Defacer. If nothing else, she got people's attention. As Shawn Tsang I can shout all I want about how important my work is, but no one seems to listen. I know it's not that simple, but when I feel backed into a corner that's where my mind goes even though I _know_ better.”

“All the guys at my uncle's mechanic shop treat me like a punk or a charity case,” Juan-Andrés explained. “It doesn't matter how hard I work or how good I am at fixing cars and bikes, they act like I'm still a criminal. Sometimes I think that, if they all assume I'm stealing parts and souping up my bike to go race again as Thrill Devil anyway, then I might as well do it for real. What would be the difference? You guys are the only ones who act like I'm better than that, but I'm not sure I really am.”

Pam said, “Working here at the center, I always worry what the parents would think if they knew I used to break into vaults and steal for a living. I just imagine their disapproval and horror that someone like me, with what I've done, is around their kids. It makes me feel so guilty, like I don't deserve to be here. Sometimes I don't even want to come into work because I feel like such a phoney, but then I tell myself if I can help just one kid not go down the same path I did, then it's worth the struggle.”

Grimm shared, “My work is actually going pretty good. It's menial stuff, but what do you expect when you're a Gorilla with my track record? My boss wants me to interview for this opening that would put me in charge of scheduling the guys and finding more labor and stuff, but I'm scared to be in charge. So far if I screwed up it was just on me, but if I had this job and screwed up I'd be bringing everyone else down too, especially the person who took a chance on me.”

They discussed strategies for dealing with their particular issues and exchanged words of understanding and encouragement. Shawn passed out a packet that had some further information on coping mechanisms. The literature was from programs technically geared towards ex-cons or addicts, but she'd consolidated what she felt was applicable to them, and the group went through one of the worksheets where they identified where they felt the most at risk for falling into bad habits or temptations. Dick couldn't say that he had bad habits as such, but he certainly had fears that he might develop them and temptations to compromise his morals, so he used that. They spoke briefly about their results and then it was on to the final activity of the meeting.

“Alright that brings this week's discussion topic to a close,” Shawn told them. “Next is sharing any specific challenges or triumphs we experienced in the past week. Does anyone want to go first?”

Dick's hand shot up eagerly and the whole group laughed. They'd all been watching him squirm impatiently for the last half an hour, impatient to reveal the news that had him beaming all day.

“Okay, Dick,” Shawn said with a smirk. “It's your time to shine.”

He sat up a bit straighter in his chair and folded his hands in his lap, all of a sudden feeling formalities were in order for this bit of news. He felt an odd flutter of nerves but damped them down before they could ruin his moment.

“I have a triumph to share,” he informed the group, glancing at each of them in turn, and remembering their kind words to him over the fast few months. “I've spoken a few times about challenges in my relationship with one of my brothers, who I've said has a lot of the same problems you guys do. A few weeks ago you all were nice enough to suggest I invite him to the group, and, well, it took a while for me to get around to it, but last night we went out to eat together and I did it. I invited him. And even more crazy, he said he'd come starting next week. And it's all thanks to you guys for encouraging me.”

The whole group whistled, clapped and cheered with real happiness. Randy pat Dick on the back in congratulations and Shawn knocked elbows with him happily. They all expressed how excited they were to meet his brother and how happy they were to be able to help someone new. He had to admit it felt pretty good, like he was a real member of the Run-Offs and not an outsider. Dick felt like an outsider way too often in his life, and wasn't it strange that he'd found companionship here among ex-villains he'd put away?

“That's so great, Dick,” Pam said with a genuine smile. “Your brother is a vigilante too, right? Is it someone we know?”

“Um, maybe?” Dick said, somewhat hesitantly, even though he'd known this would come up almost immediately.

He was usually vague about the identities of his vigilante friends and family, using their codenames if he felt he needed to specify someone in particular when sharing. He'd been _particularly_ leery of mentioning Jason's name and codename, partly because it was something of a secret that the Red Hood's activities were more or less sanctioned by Batman, and partly because Dick had lingering worries about the Run-Offs reaction when they found out. They'd all assured him they would welcome anyone making an honest effort to change, no matter their crimes in the past, but while all the Run-Offs had their own sins to carry, the Red Hood had enough blood on his hands to drown their own easily.

“Are you going to tell us, or make us guess?” Grimm asked, then thoughtfully added, “Or maybe he wants it to stay secret. I mean, I can't exactly hide my identity, but I can understand someone else wanting to.”

“Naw, it's not a secret, not from you guys,” Dick said with a shake of his head. “He's going to patrol with me after meetings, so you'd probably find out anyway. And since you already know who I am he didn't see a point in hiding who he his, so I can tell you that much.”

Randy gave him an annoyed look. “Well can ya get on with it, then? You got me on the edge of my seat here, wonderin' if I've seen this guy before.”

Juan-Andrés eyed Randy knowingly and teased, “You sound so interested. Bet you're thinking anyone who's related to Dick has to be good eye candy, aren't you?”

Randy blushed and spluttered, “I'm not! That ain't it! I'm just curious.”

“Well, I was thinking it,” Shawn said unabashedly, and Pam made a scandalized squeal and turned to give her a high-five while Giz watched from beside them with consternation. Dick briefly felt a stab of concern that introducing his girlfriend to his younger brother—who he thought probably _would_ count as eye-candy to her if Dick was one to guess—would backfire horribly on him in some way, but then he realized that was stupid and told himself to forget it.

“Actually we're adopted brothers, not blood related, but he's bigger and taller than me and definitely not ugly so...” Dick shrugged, allowing the group to interpret those facts how they willed.

Thinking carefully about what else to add, he decided to err on the side of caution and protect Jason's privacy. From things Dick had shared already, the Run-Offs knew that Jason was a few years his junior and had been Robin after him. He'd danced around telling them the specifics of his brother's death and resurrection, but he'd communicated that very tragic events had befallen Jason that ultimately resulted in his break with the bat family and Batman in particular, at which point he'd taken on a villainous persona. Dick had just never outright said what that persona was.

“I'll let him give his name, I'm not sure if he's going to use an alias or not,” Dick said, bracing himself to make the big reveal. “But right now he lives in Gotham, and goes by the codename the Red Hood.”

At his words, the gregarious tone of the room imploded as everyone gasped. Pam and Giz moved to hold each other, casting Dick wide eyes filled with fear. Juan-Andrés bit his lip and sat at the edge of his seat with his hands clasped and his leg bouncing nervously. Grimm growled, his lips rolling back to expose his frighteningly large teeth, and Randy turned green and stared at the floor. Well, it was safe to say they'd all heard of him.

It was Shawn who gave voice to the shock of the others by confronting Dick with, “The Red Hood is your _brother?_ The Red Hood was a _Robin?!_ ”

“Surprise?” Dick said helplessly, strain tugging at his smile as he analyzed the faces of his friends and tried to gauge how they were taking it. I wasn't promising.

“That guy has killed over a hundred people,” Juan-Andrés told the room.

“And most of 'em were crooks like us.” Randy looked nauseous.

“Isn't the Red Hood one of the biggest crime bosses in Gotham? How can he be an ex-villain if he's still a villain?” Gorilla Grimm pointed out.

Giz looked up from reading something on his phone and informed them, “This post on the net says the Red Hood was Black Mask's number two and then he offed him and took over his empire. Now he's got an Amazon and Superman working for him as enforcers and he's in a war with Penguin.”

Pam frowned beside her boyfriend. “Wait, Superman? That makes no sense.”

“Giz, no phones during group, you know the rules,” Shawn warned, but it was Dick himself she'd pinned with her formidable glare, demanding a proper explanation for his actions.

Dick figured he owed them that much. Voice slipping into the same comforting and calm one he'd used on his brother just the night before, he tried to ease their fears. “Yes, he used to kill, but the crime boss gig was always a cover, and is even more so now that he's reformed. He uses it to infiltrate operations and fight crime that us other vigilantes can't. As for the Superman thing, that's only half-true. His team calls themselves the Outlaws and one of them is an imperfect clone of Superman named Bizarro.”

Shawn was still skeptical. “So he's killed people and Batman lets him work for him? I didn't realize Batman was such a forgiving guy.”

“You'd be surprised.” It was a side to Batman that was difficult to believe if you didn't know the man personally. Bruce had always been open to forgiveness in the face of genuine repentance and had extended his hand to a number of villains over the years, including Gotham's own Azrael and Clayface. Dick tried to follow his example in that, which was probably why he could sit here like this with the Run-Offs to begin with.

“So, if this guy tries to kill us, Batman will take him out, right?” Gorilla Grimm asked. “He wouldn't let the Red Hood off us just because we're criminals, would he?”

Dick snorted. “Firstly, what am I, chopped liver?” Sure, Batman was great to have in your back pocket, but Dick was confident that he could handle any single villain on his own, and if there was more than one, he had his own team of superheroes at his beck and call, for God's sake. For anything but maybe a multidimensional threat, Dick was just as good as Batman!

He made another sound of derision just to make it clear how disgusted he was by their lack of faith. “And secondly, the Red Hood won't hurt you. It'll be fine.” Probably. Hopefully.

Pam gave him a look. “Dick, we know you're Nightwing and all, but this is the _Red Hood_ we're talking about. He uses guns! You just have sticks!”

Dick was mildly offended. “That's what Kevlar is for. I've beaten him before, you know. I can handle him,” he said decisively and waved off everyone's arguments before they could come up with any more. Geez, Dick hadn't realized Jason's reputation as a badass had begun to rival his own. Did Nightwing need more PR?

“Wait, he's not going to bring guns here on costume nights, is he?” Juan-Andrés asked of no one in particular.

Everyone looked nervously at Dick, who decided to shrug rather than answer. It seemed a bad idea to say Jason carried guns everywhere he went, whether he was in costume or not. He figured the C4 was best not discussed either.

“Speaking of costume nights,” Shawn interjected, examining something a few pages into the stack of her clipboard. “It was supposed to be next week but now that we know Dick is bringing _the freaking_ _Red Hood_ here, maybe we should put it off to at least the week after. What do you all say?”

There was a chorus of agreement as Pam admitted that was probably a good idea since he was new and Juan-Andrés offered that he'd rather not get shot on sight for being an ex-criminal. The group ignored Dick when he again assured them it wouldn't be a problem. He didn't even know if Jason would recognize any of them, except maybe Grimm who was pretty conspicuous on account of being a ten-foot sapient Gorilla. Still...he didn't think it would hurt to be safe.

“So...it's okay that I invited him, right?” Dick asked the group, suddenly unsure if their prior welcome was still valid. Jason would probably be really upset with him if he canceled, and Dick would be disappointed as well, but he didn't want the Run-Offs to feel unsafe either. They'd been a group long before Dick had appeared and though they'd accepted him, that acceptance didn't necessarily extend to anyone else he invited wholesale. And after everything else, Dick counted them as friends, probably his only real friends outside of the Titans. He didn't want to take advantage of them by forcing his brother Jason, the Red Hood who they were so afraid of, on them if they absolutely didn't want it.

The Run-Offs exchanged glances with each other that Dick couldn't quite interpret. After a nerve-wracking moment wherein Dick was almost certain he'd have to break the news to Jason after all the trouble he'd gone through, every single one of them broke into a smile.

“Sure, why not?” Giz said with a shrug.

“I'm sure he'll fit right in with this crowd,” Randy said.

“We're rearranging the schedule just for him. The Red Hood better be grateful,” Shawn threatened.

Dick beamed. “I'll see that he is,” he assured her.

 

– – –

 

It was almost midnight and the last thing Detective Elise Svoboda needed was a visit from Blüdhaven's newest caped smartass but no one ever gave a damn what she wanted and apparently they didn't intend to start tonight.

“Good evening, ma'am,” came the annoyingly cheerful greeting of the kid she knew as Nightwing, and all she could think was what the fuck were her officers doing if a costumed vigilante in a domino mask could just wander into the Blüdhaven police precinct with no resistance? No one respected the cops in this town anymore and shit like this was why.

Svoboda glared at the young man as he sauntered in wearing the typical get-up she'd come to expect: sleek black and blue body-suit over an athletic physique with gauntlets, boots and domino mask, two fighting slicks attached to his back. She could admit to herself that he had an attractive face and an even more attractive body because she was forty and married, not dead. But as charming and good-looking as the guy was there was nothing Nightwing could say or do that could make her interested in why the fuck he was here.

“You can either get your ass into a cell or get the hell out of the building,” she told him without ceremony, jabbing a thumb towards the door. “Either way I don't want to hear any of your ' _g_ _ood evening ma'ams_ '. Vigilantes don't just get to sashay into the BPD like it's their personal catwalk. The only reason you aren't in prison is I technically haven't caught you doing anything illegal yet.” Outside of that issue with the criminal kids getting framed anyway, but they were pretending she'd busted that case on her own and she wasn't about to incriminate herself in her own office.

Nightwing just ignored her and set down a giant takeout cup of hot coffee on her desk which she somehow hadn't noticed him holding. Good detective work Elise, that could have been a gun. She blamed it on the fast approaching fourteen-hours-on-the-job mark.

She snatched up the cup and took a generous gulp—mocha, with triple espresso shots and no milk. How Nightwing knew her favorite order of overpriced coffee, she didn't know, but also wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking. Instead she leaned back into her old, creaky desk chair, took another infusion of caffeine and warned him, “This doesn't mean I like you.”

The vigilante examined her office with mild interest but the sharp intelligence of his eyes betrayed the illusion. This kid was smart and well-trained—dangerously so. She didn't think for a second that he wasn't filing away every single thing he saw in the back of his brain somewhere to use against her at some later date when it became relevant.

After a moment, he came to lean against her desk and she resented the fact that his ass was on her stuff and he was looking down at her like his presence was something normal which it most definitely wasn't. “I know the Blüdhaven police department has a reputation for corruption,” he began, sounding amused. “But who knew all it took to buy them off was an evening delivery of fresh donuts and coffee? It's a little sad, don't you think? You might want to do something about that.”

She scowled. The only people working this late weren't the lazy and corrupt, but the idealistic do-gooders, the ones who thought the idea of a caped crusader meant good things for the city. She would have to talk with her department about letting this guy loiter here. A vigilante wasn't some kind of magic wand. Look at Gotham. It had upwards of a dozen of the fuckers running around and it was still one incident away from a literal hellhole. Professional integrity was at stake and a vigilante wasn't going to be what solved this blood and filth-stained town's problems. It was going to be good cops doing their jobs. Preferably by keeping Nightwing out of her office.

Whatever, she needed to get this kid out of here as quickly as possible. “What do you want, brat? I'm busy.” She moved papers around on her desk to hide them from his eyes. Nightwing didn't get to peek at her case files. She wouldn’t allow it.

He shrugged. “Nothing much, I just figured if I wanted to keep on your good side I should give you a heads-up now and then.”

“You're not on my good side. I don't have a good side.”

Nightwing smiled a stupidly handsome smile and she considered shooting him out of spite and making up a justification after the fact—it would work, Blüdhaven wasn't consistently ranked highest on the national list of corruption in police departments for nothing—but the paperwork wouldn't quite have been worth it.

He picked up a folder off her desk and moved to open it before she snatched it from him and tossed it in a pile on the opposite corner. The kid seemed to find that funny but didn't comment on it, instead saying, “Don't sell yourself short, Elise—may I call you 'Elise'?”

“No.” No way in hell.

He continued, unfazed. “I think you do have a good side. And I hope you extend that good side to a friend of mine who is going to be in town for a day or so each week starting next Friday.”

She narrowed her eyes from above the lid of her coffee cup which she'd taken another sip of. “If I see Batman on a billboard, I'm just gonna quit the police department and become a two-cent boardwalk hooker. I'd probably make more money. Might be able to pay for my daughter's college.”

Nightwing chuckled. Whether at her plans to become a hooker or the idea of Batman on a billboard ad like the one he'd been showcased in she didn't know. “No, not Batman,” he confirmed.

That was somewhat relieving. Nightwing was one thing. He was just a kid in his twenties or so. A well-connected, hyper-competent kid with a smile that wouldn't be out of place on the cover of an issue of GQ and more muscles and gadgets than God, but still a kid. He didn't have the kind of sway or reputation of a long-time vigilante like the Batman. The GCPD were well known to be under the bat's thumb and she didn't have any faith that her department wouldn't do the same if he became a regular. If that happened Svoboda was pretty sure she'd never get anyone to respect the Blüdhaven police force again. They'd just become the Batman's loyal dogs and that was no way to effect crime in any meaningful capacity.

“I'm not appeased,” she said. “And the fact you didn't lead with this guy's name and you're still stalling just makes me think I won't like it when you finally spit it out.” She set down her coffee and considered telling the brat to make himself useful and get her one of these alleged donuts he'd bribed her detectives with. “Not that I'd like _any_ cape you brought in. This town doesn't need psychos in costumes. It's got enough regular crooks.”

“Well, you're not wrong,” he admitted. “I guess that's why you're the detective. But just hear me out before you draw down on me.”

“I don't make deals with capes,” she spat. So. Nightwing thought Svoboda would hate what he had to say enough to pull a gun on him. That was a bad sign if she'd ever heard one.

Nightwing rolled his eyes, because they actually had made at least one deal already. “I'll take that as an 'I'm listening.'”

She rubbed her temples where she'd already smudged off most of her make-up from doing it more than once today. This brat...he was going to be the death of her. “The foreplay is getting tiresome, kid.”

He took the hint. “I'm going to be patrolling next Friday—”

She interrupted with a snort. “' _Patrol_ '? Seriously? You freaks really think you're the law, don't you. The police patrol. Not vigilantes.”

“ _Patrolling_ next Friday,” he repeated with more emphasis, “with my friend, the Red Hood. And before you freak out, the reports of his activities in Gotham are exaggerated and you have nothing to worry about. I'll be with him the whole time.”

She almost jumped out of her seat. She probably should have, but she was just too damn tired and pissed to bother. This was _not_ what Svoboda wanted or expected to hear. Sure Nightwing ran around punching gang-bangers and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong but she'd thought he was otherwise a good kid. Not someone who called a psychotic felon like the Red Hood, with a rap sheet that rivaled _War and Peace_ in length, a friend. But then again, he called that bunch of ex-cons the Run-Offs friends too, so maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised and disappointed.

She still was, though.

Svoboda shook her head in disbelief, her mouth pursed in anger as she tried to find the words and just failed. What the hell. Seriously, just what the hell.

“Right, well,” she managed. “As far as I'm concerned you just confessed that you're a co-conspirator with the organized crime boss, racketeer, arsonist, grand thief, weapons and drug dealer, vigilante and _serial murderer_ known as the Red Hood. Be a doll and take yourself down to booking for me. You saw it on the left when you waltzed in like a dumbass.”

The expression on Nightwing's face remained irrationally calm. “All I said was that he's a friend, that's not enough for a RICO to extend to me and you know it,” he pointed out confidently. And it was true, but in a town like Blüdhaven the truth didn't mean much. “And anyway, I told you, those reports are exaggerated.”

She gave him the stare she reserved for complete idiots. “Sure, like I'm going to take the word of a vigilante on that. You costumes are all in-cahoots, you'd lie for each other at the drop of a hat.” Nightwing's word might have meant something to her before this conversation, though she'd never tell him that, but now? Fuck.

Svaboda sighed, a harsh, gusty breath that stirred the papers on her desk. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she hissed, “I can't believe you're telling me this shit. You seriously think I'm going to look the other way if I see the Red Hood in Blüdhaven just because you brought me coffee? You're a fucking moron.”

“I'm just asking you to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Nightwing pleaded, placing his gauntlet-covered hands together in a begging gesture as he caught her eyes with a look of sincerity. “If you actually catch him in the act of something, I'm not going to stop you from trying to arrest him—though I definitely don't advise you try, for your sake—but he's here under my authority. He's not going to do anything that I wouldn't while he's in town. He's already promised me.”

Yeah, like a promise from someone like the Red Hood meant anything. Svoboda ran a frustrated hand through her hair and observed it was more gray than blond these days. “And why the hell would I give him 'the benefit of the doubt'?” she asked. “I don't even give you the benefit of the doubt, and you're standing in my office somehow not in handcuffs.”

“Because I asked nicely?” Nightwing said with a gleaming smile, too cocky by half.

“You've got some nerve, kid. I'll give you that,” she said and had meant it to be just another insult, but from the smirk of triumph Nightwing wore as he gracefully stood from leaning against her desk, he seemed to think it was code for acceptance.

He stretched his arms above his head, making a sound that was vaguely obscene as he shook out his muscles and rolled his neck as if working out the kinks. This behavior was altogether too at ease for her liking. “I just didn't want you to worry if you heard Red Hood was in town from someone other than me,” he said, moving away from her desk towards the center of the room. “He's going to be here but not for anything unsavory or illegal.”

“Except vigilantism. It's still a crime, you know.” Maybe no one else in the world wanted to acknowledge that fact but as long as it was still the law, then she wasn't about to forget it.

He ignored her. Of course he did. “If you want, I'll even introduce you,” Nightwing continued. “You guys are actually really alike, you know. It's kind of bizarre how much. I think you'd get along.”

“Yeah, and maybe we'll become gal-pals,” she deadpanned. “We'll hang out and sip cheap wine, reading _Eat Pray Love_ and braiding each other's hair.”

Nighting shrugged with his hands on his narrow hips, wearing a knowing smile. “I don't know about the hair-braiding part, but he likes alcohol and he likes reading, so it's not impossible.”

“Fuck,” she said, because she also liked alcohol and reading and didn't know what else to say. Svoboda needed a smoke. And a donut. And a crap. She reached into the drawer of her desk, fumbling for a cigar and a lighter.

“He also likes cursing,” Nightwing added with a smirk as he watched her. “And smoking. You guys are practically friends already and you haven't even met.”

Svoboda snatched her hands away from her lighter and cigar as if their touch was fire, moving to slam her drawer shut with a decisive _bang!_ “I will _not_ become friends with the Red Hood. I fucking refuse,” she declared.

She and the Red Hood were alike. Elise could have lived her entire life without knowing that and been happy about it.

Nightwing outright laughed at her and she considered throwing something at him but there was nothing readily available but the coffee and her desk lamp and she liked both where they were. She supposed she could have chucked her case files but the little shit would have probably liked that.

“Well, my work here is done,” Nightwing told her, expression pleased with himself. “You might want to snag a donut before your department eats them all. I know how much you like the old fashioned cake ones, so I got you a bunch.”

Her brows snapped together in suspicion. “How did you—,” she began, but clamped her mouth shut before she could finish. She didn't even want to know. She was _not_ friends with Nightwing and she sure as hell wouldn't become friends with the Red Hood either, no matter how much late night coffee they brought her or how many donuts they bribed her with. It was _not_ happening.

“Oh, and by the way, can you stop spying on my girlfriend?” she heard him say and his tone was less amiable and more just angry.

She raised an eyebrow at the man. “Your girlfriend? What the hell are you talking about?”

Nightwing crossed his arms in front of him and cocked a hip, giving her a look that bordered on annoyed. “Shawn Tsang. Defacer. She said you've been lurking outside her apartment. She can hardly get up to any trouble when she's dating a vigilante, right? You don't have to worry about her, she's reformed.”

Svoboda bit her lip. “I don't answer to you, Nightwing. And I'm really starting to question why I'm even talking to a guy who is dating a delinquent and close friends with an international criminal,” was what she said, but internally the cogs in her brain had started spinning. Shawn Tsang, huh? Did that mean the girl knew who Nightwing was outside of the mask? Probably. Or at the very least she'd seen him without the costume. Svoboda couldn't imagine the two were saving themselves for marriage, not when the ultimate tease of a finely-muscled man in nothing but a skin-tight leotard was hung in front of the graffiti artist. No one had that much willpower.

“Ex-delinquent. Ex-international criminal,” Nightwing corrected her but she was barely listening.

“There isn't a statute of limitations on murder,” she reminded him.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, tone and expression strangely serious. “But he's served his time. It just wasn't in prison.”

She sighed and hung her head, massaging her shoulders while glaring at her half-finished paperwork and scattered case files. She was curious what he meant by that but equally didn't want to know. She didn't want to know any of this, really. Svoboda was a cop, Nightwing was a vigilante, practically a criminal. She shouldn’t even be talking to him much less practically working with the kid, and now he was bringing in the Red Hood? And dating freaking Defacer? What the hell did he expect from her?

She raised her head, in complete disbelief of the words about to come out of her mouth. “Fine, but if I catch either of them so much as jaywalking, then I'm gonna—”

She blinked stupidly, realizing her office was empty of anyone but herself. The window was also open where it had been closed just moments ago and the sounds of traffic and tourists drifted in with the night air. Furthermore, there was a file missing from her desk.

Leaning back in her chair, she could only curse.

 


	2. Get A Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a case file and Dick is a master at conning Jason into doing things he really doesn't want to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a three scene chapter, but the first scene was already +5,000 words long by the time I got it to my liking and I figured you guys would prefer getting this now rather than wait upwards of another week or so for the whole thing. I'm trying to actually be timely with chapters for once, so it works out, but it goes against all my instincts not to release stupidly long chapters (truly, stupidly long, I've written 27,000 word chapters before and they usually take months) so...I don't know, I guess I'm just attempting to convince myself to get over it.

The thing to know about Dick Grayson was once he got an idea into his demented bird-brain he just wouldn't give it up. Jason had seen right away that this support group nonsense had taken hold and deduced it was easier to go the passive-aggressive route than fight it head on.

All the bats thought Jason was some kind of idiot, didn't think he knew any way to solve a problem but put a bullet in it. This was not true. It was just that he didn't have Bruce's cave or Fox's tech or Dick's friends so most of the time bullets was all Jason had. When he had better options, he used them, and for this he had a plan. A pretty shit one, but despite everything he didn't particularly want to pump lead into Dick's forehead to make this go away.

The plan, such as it was, consisted of nothing more than to play the waiting game. Jason would show up in Blüdhaven one night a week as promised and make Dick pay for his dinner. He'd go to the meetings, but he wouldn't spill his guts and confess his sins or fall for this 'guys' night' trap Dick was trying to set to make it seem like he actually cared. After that he'd work out some of his frustrations on some crooks and get the hell out the next morning. A couple of weeks and Dick would get tired of it, giving up on this rehabilitation kick because it would be clear Jason wouldn't cooperate, then everything would go back to normal.

Because who was Dick kidding? He hadn't invited Jason out last week for his company, to hang like they were real family or friends. He didn't want to get to know him more or partner up like the old days. No, he just wanted to pull this intervention shit and make himself look good in front of his new girlfriend. To parade around his damaged little brother for her and her club to coo at and call Dick a saint for taking Jason under his wing. That's all this was. And Jason would suffer through it because he was too damn tired of being angry all the time to put up a real fight anymore. That fire had burnt out long ago, and now he was just cold. Just a few weeks of dealing, and it would be over.

And in the meantime, he was going to milk Dick for all he was worth.

Okay, no, that thought came out wrong.

Pressing that disturbing image out of his mind, Jason scanned the menu of the Brazilian grill Dick had dragged him to with an eye for ordering the most expensive thing he could find. This seemed to be a toss-up between steak and lobster at over thirty-five smackers a plate for either, which would have been nothing for Bruce-I-got-all-the-money-Wayne, but was honestly too cruel of a cost to inflict on Dick's depleted wallet for even Jason to follow through with. In the end he decided on _lombo,_ seared pork loin medallions, with a side of grilled vegetables and _farofa_ , and privately though Dick owed him one for showing so much restraint.

After the waitress left with their orders, Jason leaned back into the booth seat, allowing his eyes to dart about the restaurant. He noted impressive rotisserie-style char grills open to the diners' view, the rods dripping with different meats, periodically removed by the chefs to add to a plate. Elaborate feathered headdresses and photographs of _gauchos_ and beautiful women clothed in little more than sequins and feathers during _Carnival_ were displayed on the walls. It was a pretty cool place with real ambiance, but Jason could hardly appreciate it properly with anxiety screaming through his body.

He hated small talk. Hated the screwed-up social awkwardness that was inevitably forced on him when dining with a being who wasn't Roy Harper, Koriandr, Artemis or Bizarro. He hated that sense of expectation to entertain them or live up to some unseen standard of communication that he just couldn't do without making things even worse because his whole life was one big party-foul. Not talking made him feel like an asshole and talking made him feel worse. It was like being under a spotlight with all the stains on his soul exposed, forced to just sit there and let the other person analyze him, judge him.

Honestly, if food wasn't both delicious and biologically necessary, he would never share a meal with another person ever. It was just his luck that everyone seemed to think the best excuse to talk to him was over dinner.

The server arrived with their drinks, setting down a sugary soda for Dick and a glass of iced tea for himself with a nice big slice of lemon floating at the top. He tested the tea, decided it could use some sweetener and set about fixing it to his liking, making a point to ignore Dick's growing pout the longer he silently neglected him.

Dick drummed his fingers on the table, whistled a tune Jason didn't recognize, gave blinding smiles to the servers as they walked by, then finally appeared to reach his breaking point. “So, uh...what have you been up to, Jay?” he asked.

Jason groaned. “You realize that's the third time you've asked me that since I got here.” His fingers itched for a cigarette. He'd already made a significant dent in the full pack he'd started the day with and he hadn't even made it to the damn meeting yet. Shit, he really wasn't handling this support group crap as well as he thought he could. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't so depressing.

“You keep not answering,” Dick said, worriedly watching Jason stab at the lemon slice in his glass with his straw. “You seem on edge. Are you worried about group tonight? It's going to be great, just relax.”

“I'm fine,” he lied.

Dick did not look convinced, his sigh holding an edge of exasperation. “You're not fine, but I'll pretend I believe you if it makes you feel better.”

Jason snorted. “If this is you pretending then you're shit at it. How the hell were you a spy? No seriously, I'm asking. I bet you got made all the time. Probably the worst agent in history.”

His obvious deflection was ignored and Dick put on a cat-like smile as he said, “Well if you don't want to talk about your week, and you don't want to talk about how nervous you are about group tonight, then maybe we can talk about _this_.”

Dick tossed a chunky manilla file folder down on the table between them. Jason could only assume he'd stashed it under his jacket or something, because he didn't notice it when they'd walked over to the restaurant from Dick's apartment, or when they were waiting outside for a table to open up. Although to be fair, he _had_ been avoiding eye contact and chain smoking for all he was worth, so...okay, no, it still wasn't forgivable.

“What's this?” he asked, picking it up. Jason wasn't actually asking what it was. Any former Robin worth his salt had seen enough of them to recognize that special rumpled, mistreated, coffee- and ink-stained veneer that denoted a juicy police case file. He was more asking what it was doing on the table in front of him and what Dick expected him to do with it. Also, why he should care.

“Just something I swiped from the BPD,” Dick said, sounding rather pleased with himself. “I took it at random when I went to tell Svoboda you'd be in town, but as it turns out the case is pretty interesting.”

“How naughty of you.” Jason opened the file and was immediately greeted with photographs of bloated corpses in glossy technicolor. “Wonderful,” he deadpanned. “Just what I needed to see when I was about to enjoy a meal.” The bodies weren't pretty, either. They looked like they'd been fished out of a bay and had peculiar pit marks in the skin that—

Wait. No no _no_. He knew what Dick was trying to do and _no_. He wouldn't fall for it. Just _no._

“Sorry,” Dick said, but he didn't sound sorry, he sounded excited. Jason just shook his head. Bats and their whodunits, with their little clues. They got off on that CSI crap, every last one of them. Well _not_ Jason. Dick could leave him out of it. There would be no Colonel Mustard in the dining room with the candlesticks from him.

He slapped the folder closed defiantly and shoved it back toward Dick, nearly knocking over his glass of Dr. Pepper with a jingle of sloshing ice. “I don't do murder mysteries,” Jason told him before the man could even get started. “I was never any good at the whole detective-thing anyway.”

Dick rolled his eyes, apparently not buying it even if Jason himself believed it. “Yes, you were,” he argued. “Maybe not as good as Tim, but almost as good as me. It's like riding a bike, you'll get back into it.”

Jason scowled. That presupposed he actually _wanted_ to get back into it. Gotham had more than enough capes running around playing Sherlock Holmes; his niche was different. He aimed to bring down the most insidious mobsters and crime lords that had wormed their way like parasites into Gotham's infrastructure, to the point that no amount of bat-gathered evidence would put them away. Guys like Black Mask, or the Italian crime families, the Triads or Penguin, who had the city's leaders in their pockets, didn't make flashy declarations of challenge and went out of their way to make things look like business as usual. They had middleman upon middleman between themselves and their crimes, and reaped the rewards in Batman's face and laughed about it.

Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl. They solved the tough cases and tried to punish criminals within the law. They investigated, gathered evidence, captured the interlopers and delivered them to the cops. The perps would get a lawyer, a trial, a jury and a judge. And every step to a sentence was another leak in the sieve for the rich and nefarious to slither through.

But Jason, he didn't give a damn about the law. It had never done a thing for him and he didn't expect it to make things right now. If the law couldn't deliver justice, then the Red Hood would. Bruce said Jason couldn't kill. Well, fine then. He'd take what those bastards loved away from them. He'd undermine their power, scatter their allies, steal their money and weapons, blow up their property, remove every safe harbor, threaten every bunker and secret hideout. He used every resource he had available to raze his enemy's world to the ground. Make them suffer, like they'd made others suffer.

That was his job and he was good at it. Running around with a magnifying glass and gathering clues was just a waste of his time when most of the people he went after didn't bother hiding their activities beyond the point of plausible deniability.

“Not interested,” Jason said, and bent to noisily slurp the last of his tea through his straw. It was pretty darn good tea. He definitely needed a refill. Too bad they were free, he wouldn't have minded fleecing his money bags for a bit more.

“Just read through it and tell me what you see. Humor me,” Dick asked with stupid pleading, hopeful eyes that made Jason want to deck him. Clearly he wanted Jason in on this case with him for some reason.

Jason groaned, but retrieved the file as requested and started skimming it. Dick was asking a hell of a lot from him lately and he didn't quite know how the man kept getting away with it. Whatever, nothing else to do while they waited for their food, he supposed.

“What's so special about this case, anyway?” he asked incredulously. “It looks like these bodies all floated in from the ocean. 'Tossed off a pier' is a pretty common method of body disposal even if it isn't reliable. With six bodies it sounds like mob executions. They're into the classics.”

“You'd think,” Dick acknowledged, “except none of the bodies had obvious signs of confrontation or execution, and all showed mottled skin, pitting edema, boils and ring-shaped scars and tested positive for the same foreign substance. The medical examiner's report says it was like something just started trying to bubble out of the vics bodies, and whatever did seems to be the cause of death. There's no obvious relationship between the COD and the foreign substance other than the fact that they are both there and both weird, but—” Dick shrugged. “Occam's Razor. There must be a connection of some kind.”

“Huh.” Jason searched through the file until he found the lab reports on the foreign substance. Attached was a printed email from a Biochemist at Gotham University that suggested the substance shouldn't cause any of the effects seen in the bodies or be especially lethal, even in the high amounts found in the vics bodies. It was actually a wonder the substance was noticed at all, because it wasn't something that would hit on the normal drug or toxin tests conducted at autopsy. The identification was made by chance from oddities in more specific tests run because of the strange wounds found in the cutaneous layers of the skin. When they found more bodies with the same profile, they were tested against the substance and bingo-bongo, connection made.

“Okay. You got me there, this is odd,” Jason said, and skipped back to look over the victim profiles, shaking his head as he continued to read and things just went from opaque to downright murky. “All of these people were in street clothes or business wear, not something you'd expect anyone around water to be wearing. Despite being fancy-pants lawyers, businessmen, a councilman's secretary and an escort, none of them own or frequent yachts. The cadavers must have been taken out at sea and dumped purposefully. It's not a matter of accident or opportunism by proximity to the ocean.”

He turned back to the lab reports and examined the chemical's make-up, it didn't look like anything he recognized though admittedly his knowledge of chemistry outside of explosives was shallow. Still, there were some tell-tale organic structures that raised red flags in the back of his mind.

Their server came around briefly to set down a new glass of tea for him and remove the empty one, as well as add another glass of soda for Dick, though his was still half full. Jason rubbed his chin and looked up from his reading. “I'm guessing you ran this chemical through B's database already.” Because duh. It's the first thing anyone trained by Batman would do.

Dick hummed a confirmation. “No matches, though it has a few molecular rings that suggest it bonds to neurotransmitters in the brain.”

Jason made a sound of disgust. “So it _i_ _s_ a drug.” Drugs. It was always freaking drugs.

Dick responded with a sound of agreement, his lip raised in a silent snarl that he suspected mirrored his own. Jason figured they'd both been dosed with enough fear-toxin and all kinds of other crazy shit over the years that they had a right to that expression.

“Looks like it,” Dick said and bent to polish off his first glass of soda before reaching for the new one. “Though I can't get any more specific in how it effects the brain other than 'positive mood and increased energy' and it has a hell of a half-life, so the withdrawals are probably kind of messed up if you took it for too long. Theoretically its effects are subtle but last a long time. It almost sounds pharmaceutical rather than recreational, but it doesn't match anything there, either. Not even at the research phase.”

Jason contemplated what they'd discussed so far. “So let me get this straight. Six victims, all upper-class more or less, probably around important people at the very least. All dosed with a mysterious drug, all with mysterious wounds inflicted by a mysterious means that is not the drug. All dumped in the water away from whatever location they initially died in.”

Dick nodded. “That is the gist of it, yes.”

Closing the file for a second time, Jason just said, “Sounds like you stole yourself a serious pain in the ass. Good luck with that.”

Dick put on his pout again and how a grown man got away with pouting all the time, Jason did not understand. “Come on, Jay. Do this with me. It'll be fun!” he whined.

Jason groaned and reached up to rub at his face. Yeah, only Dick would think tracking a mysterious killer and then handing him over for other people to punish would be fun. Jason sure didn't and it was starting to grate that Dick wouldn't leave it alone. The guy was trying damned hard to bring him in on this, but he didn't understand why. As some kind of test? He might expect that bullshit from Bruce, Batman, but not from Dick. If not a test, then what other reason would Dick have to steal a file from the cops and hand it to him over dinner, making him talk it over as they waited for their food? The case had nothing to do with the Red Hood, nothing to do with Crime Ally. It barely even had anything to do with Nightwing, so that wasn't it.

So what was the reason? Why was Dick doing this? If it _was_ a test, then what for? To see if he was still competent enough to conduct a case, to prove Red Hood was good enough to go out with Nightwing? Maybe he'd suspected Red Hood had something to do with the murders, and wanted to see his reaction to the evidence? Maybe...

His mind churned with distrust and indecision. Jason didn't know what this was, and he didn't like not knowing where he stood. He had spent his whole life surrounded by people playing their own games with him as the unwitting pawn and inevitable victim. Batman, Talia, Joker. As far as mankind was concerned, other humans were just meant to be used. That was true of nearly everyone in this fucked-up world, Jason found, and he couldn't imagine even Dick Grayson would be any different. There were exactly four people on this planet who Jason could trust to give and not take and take and keep taking until they'd wrung him dry, and Dick wasn't on that list.

So the question remained. What did he _want_?

“Why?” Jason questioned, barely keeping his tone from devolving into a threatening growl. “You don't need me for this. Not for any of it.”

Dick's voice spoke through the haze of his dark thoughts. “Why does it have to be about what I need? Can't I just want to? Because you're my brother and I want to spend time together?” Dick's expression was searching.

Jason looked away, not wanting to meet those eyes. The 'brother' thing again. Dick really liked that excuse, didn't he? And it always seemed to work on him despite the almost violent clenching in his stomach when he heard it. Despite Dick's rose-tinted glasses, they'd never been like real brothers. Even as a kid, as Robin, he'd never once called Dick his brother. Maybe Jason had thought it once or twice, but...well, it had always seemed too good to be real. Too fragile to be acknowledged or it would all crumble away as if it had never been.

Even now. _Especially_ now.

Jason looked down at the file and flicked it back open for a third time. _Fuck_. He didn't even know why he was doing this. “So? What next, Holmes? We gonna look for clues?” he asked, trying to level out his breathing without Dick noticing.

Dick smirked, eyes sparkling as he looked at Jason in a way that made him want to squirm in his seat. He tried to ignore the feeling. “Does that make you Watson?”

“The poor sod who gets dragged around by a narcissistic sociopath against his will?" He huffed. "Yeah, I feel like a 'Watson' right about now.”

With hint of laughter in his voice, Dick continued from where they'd left off. “The police already have the medical angle of the COD covered. There's no one we'd have access to that they don't except maybe magicians, so dead end there.”

“Yeah, and no point looking into who could dump a body off the coast of Blüdhaven because that includes basically fucking everyone,” he added. “The drug seems unique, but you're not going to find anything busting down dealers' doors that the police wouldn't already know.”

Dick gave a sound of agreement. “I did ask around about it just in case, but I didn't have any luck. Chemical charts don't mean much to the average drug dealer, and asking for 'the one that possibly boils out of your blood' didn't ring any bells either. Without knowing more about what it does, or why someone would want it, it's hard to find, assuming you can get it at street level at all, which seems doubtful.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jason's brain whizzed with thought. “So on the drug angle, next step would be questioning real international A-listers. The kind of assholes who sell your custom chemical weapons and nerve toxins to fuckers like Scarecrow and Joker.”

Dick gasped with an utterly fake and exaggerated look of realization that had Jason shooting him annoyed glares. “Hey! You know who could do that for us? _The Red Hood!_ ”

Jason scrunched up the napkin that had come with his silverware and chucked it at Dick's head. The asshole just laughed as Jason said, “Shut your damn face.” Nope, he wasn't agreeing to hit up some scummy underworld creeps on Dick's behalf, even if it would be easier and safer for Jason as the Red Hood to get an audience with said people than it would for Nightwing.

Still chuckling, Dick asked, “And what about the other angles?”

“Don't pretend like I'm not saying anything you haven't already thought of.”

Dick shrugged, unrepentant. “Just keep talking, Watson. You're giving me ideas.”

Jason flipped Dick off from across the table but the action only garnered snickers. He did continue, though. “Then that just leaves looking into what these guys have in common that the police haven't figured out yet which—” He mimicked Dick's own horrible eureka expression as he fake-gasped and said, “Hey! Sounds really fucking boring and something that _Nightwing_ should _totally_ check out! Looks like you've found your assignment for the week, Dickie.”

“Oh, _my_ assignment. I see how it is.” His voice sounded hurt, but his expression was grinning ear to ear.

“You're the one who lives here. I have to go back to Gotham, so don't look at me.”

Dick nodded to himself. “Of course you're going back to Gotham, you need to question those bad guys for me, right?”

Jason made a noise of irritation but didn't deny it. God, he was just getting roped into all kinds of shit tonight.

Their server was coming around, bearing a huge tray of aromatic plates still sizzling from the rotisserie, so Jason grabbed the heavy file and dropped it on the booth seat next to him so they'd have room for their food. When his plate was placed in front of him, Jason nearly thought he'd died and gone to heaven, which was a pleasant surprise because though he couldn't be certain, he rather thought heaven wasn't his destination the last time around. The server did the usual bit, asking them if they needed anything, then she took Dick's empty extra glass and left them to enjoy their meal in peace.

If only Dick would do the same.

He had some kind of seafood dish that looked pricey, but then it was his money so it came guilt-free. He bit a prawn tail all the way down to the crispy fin and sat there with mouth full and his eyes closed as if he was having an orgasm.

“You're disgusting,” Jason said, with all the vehemence he could muster.

Dick seemed to come to himself and responded, “Shawn tells me that all the time. I don't get it, though. So you're really going to make me do all this investigating by myself? What happened to brotherly bonding time?”

“If you need help, call Wally. God knows that dumbass has nothing better to do from what Roy tells me. How you stand that guy is beyond me, much less call him your best friend.” He'd always disliked Wally. The guy was a needy chatterbox ginger with no sense of personal space. Jason refused to acknowledge that the exact same phrase could be applied to someone else he knew and remain factually accurate.

“Probably the same way you put up with Roy and call him your best friend,” was Dick's sage retort.

Jason growled and speared a grilled piece of squash with his fork. “Roy is nowhere near as bad as Wally,” he argued. Wally- _lite_ , was still better than Wally- _original fresh_ in every way. “Also, Roy is your friend too. Was your friend first, in fact. So the comparison doesn't mean much. Besides, I'm pretty sure both of them are your fault somehow.”

Dick's serious expression made it clear he thought Jason was deluding himself on a cosmic scale. “Roy _brags_ about the time he set your shower on fire with you in it, back when you two were a mercenary team.”

Jason put the squash in his mouth and chewed. Then he swallowed. “Shut up.”

The smirk Dick wore was irritatingly superior. “I rest my case.”

The rest of the meal was surprisingly enjoyable, but as the server came to take their empty plates away and Dick called for the check, that anxiety Jason had started the night with came crawling back with a vengeance. Every tic of the clock was some asshole throwing a brick on his shoulders until the collective weight had him shaking and gasping for air. By the time they left the restaurant and Dick was fiddling with his phone to text Shawn they were coming, Jason was back to being the wreck he always was with this kind of thing. Possibly even worse. No, definitely worse.

“Fuck,” Jason cursed quietly and fumbled shaky hands in his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. The restaurant Dick had taken him to in the Brazilian Quarter had been indoors with no smoking obviously, so he'd had to break the chain he'd been using to stay sane before Dick had managed to distract him with the murder mystery bullshit. Now that they were walking the block or so to the community center for the support group meeting, Jason wasn't sure starting it up again would even help.

Dick was walking beside him on the sidewalk and turned to aim Jason a sympathetic look. “Just try to relax, Jay. No one is going to judge you here, everyone is really cool.”

Jason rolled his eyes, borderline disgusted. As usual, Richard Fucking Grayson didn't know what the hell he was talking about. As if Jason gave a good-god-damn what any of these people thought of him or the things he'd done. That wasn't it. Though to be honest, Jason wasn't entirely sure why he was so freaked out, except maybe that his subconscious had connected 'support group' with his past experiences in Arkham and it was triggering his fight-or-flight instincts something awful.

Back then, Dr. Harleen Quinzel had been his primary therapist, before she'd given herself fully to the crazy within and become Harley Quinn, the Joker's girlfriend and sidekick. And every day she'd probed his mind for information about her obsession, she'd taken him through his birth mother's betrayal, his capture by the Joker, the brutal beatings, every word the guy had oozed at him, every scar he'd lay in Jason's body, every fear the freak had embedded in his psyche. And she'd done it again, and again, and again, opened up his mental wounds, never letting them heal, finding new ways to bring back the horror of it when the repetition of details made them lose their painful edge.

She'd never asked about the death. It would have been a relief if she had.

But this wasn't supposed to be like that. From what Dick said, this support group thing was just some people sitting around and self-indulgently crying over their problems. It sounded innocent enough, Jason had thought he could handle it. He'd been alright talking to Dick about the case file, been alright eating dinner, been alright as he added a fiver to the tip because Dick was being a cheapskate in his opinion. But now as seven o'clock was fast approaching Jason could admit to himself that he was starting to lose his shit.

He finally found his cigarettes and put one to his mouth. As he drew his lighter, his hands were shaking so much the thing went flying out of his grasp when he tried to flick the wheel. Great. Just fucking great.

“God _fucking_ damn it!” he shouted irately, and stopped walking to bend down and retrieve the thing, only to have Dick snatch it up first and rise to look at him worriedly.

“Don't you think you've had enough of those tonight?” he asked, as Jason plucked the lighter from his hand with jerky movements. He'd been there to see the chimney Jason had smoked on the way to the restaurant.

“ _No,_ ” he snarled. His tone brooked no further discussion on the matter and Dick didn't push for once so maybe you really _could_ shake some brains from the man's head on occasion.

Jason managed to keep it together long enough to get a steady flame and light up. That first hit of nicotine was usually a relief on his ragged nerves, but this time he barely felt anything as he breathed the smoke into his lungs and blew white rivulets into the dark night.

Dick's mouth made some weird motions before settling on a look of distant sympathy. As he reached to squeeze his shoulder, Jason had to fight not to flinch or shake him off. Jason had never reacted well to being touched, but he'd pretend. Just to get through this shit as painlessly as possible he'd go through the motions, make like he'd bought into Dick's attempts to comfort him.

He was most of the way through the cigarette when they came upon a big gymnasium-style building with graffiti peaking through the coats of paint someone had layered on the exterior, trying to cover it up. Dick did a little wheel of fortune flourish, looking like a total idiot.

“And here we are!” he said with a sense of pride. Though for the life of him, Jason couldn't figure out what was so great about the place as to be proud of it. The building resembled any other community center Jason had ever seen.

The two climbed the stairs to the entrance as a couple of kids tore out of the place in a bluster and threw down skateboards, sliding off down the streets. Either he knew the brats or he was just being a damn busybody which was also possible, because Dick called out to them to put helmets on, which the kids completely ignored with cackles of laughter.

While Dick made scoffing noises that seemed to be for show, Jason went to lean against the door and finish his cigarette, still a mess of a human being, his hands clammy, pulse jumping all over the place. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. After six-fifty. They were cutting it close, meaning Jason would probably get to skip the grand tour Dick had threatened him with. That was nice at least.

Jason made one last drag on his cigarette, burning it down to the filter, then stubbed it out on the edge of a trashcan by the door and tossed it away. “Let's get this over with,” he said, wincing at the jitter present in his voice despite his attempts to hold it back.

“You're doing fine, Jason. You got this,” Dick said by way of encouragement as he led the way in. Jason had to resist the urge to punch the other man for being so obliviously annoying.

Walking down the hall was like walking to his doom, and Jason's eyes darted everywhere as if expecting to see Harley Quinn or Dr. Arkham or someone equally horrible pop out at any moment. No amount of telling himself to calm the fuck down was helping, and he didn't even know why he bothered because it wasn't like it ever had before, either.

His eyes analyzed every scuff on the wood floors, every rude bit of graffiti written or carved into the walls, every dark splotch of old gum stuck to the doors. Jason tried to ignore the way his teeth were starting to ache from clenching his jaw. His neck and shoulders were so rigid with tension, he feared he might spontaneously snap a vertebrae. He noted the place had a room with mats and equipment for gymnastics training, and another for indoor basketball. There were smaller rooms with mirrors on one wall for dance or yoga or something, one mostly empty with tables and chairs stacked to one side and another set up living-room style with couches and a television set. They also passed what looked like a kitchen and some offices until they got to the end of the hall and Jason was starting to feel queasy.

The hall dead ended in a door leading outside to what looked like a community pool, but just before that was another with a note taped on the outside that read 'Ex-Villains Support Group - Fridays 7:00 pm – 8:00 pm.'

“This is it,” Dick said unnecessarily and opened the door before Jason could actually work himself up into a panic over it.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but the fact that it wasn't a gloomy office with a wilting plant in one corner and metal chair bolted to a cracked tile floor with built in restraints on the arms was one hell of a relief. Instead it was another smallish, mostly empty room like one they'd passed earlier with motivational posters and cork boards populated with fliers on the walls. There were people too, but he was trying _not_ to flip out, so he avoided looking at them.

As he followed Dick into the room with hesitant steps, Jason's own heartbeat blaring in his ears, he could only think, _what the hell have I let Dick talk me into?_ as he allowed the door to close shut behind him.

 


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason attends his first support group meeting and no one ends up dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Run-Offs get a bit of backstory in this chapter, and pretty much all of it is my creation. Some of it contradicts the few things we see of them in the comics, but their incarnations from the new Nightwing comic are so different from past iterations that what was there didn't even make sense anyway. I mean, Pam used to be white for goodness' sake (I like this version better, her natural hair looking like mouse ears is so cute). So, you know, just go with it I guess. Also, Holy Crap I'm bad at chapter titles, if you want to suggest some, go for it.

Shawn's phone vibrated, and she checked the text message on her screen.

Dick [06:38]: _Just finished dinner. We're on our way!_ :)

The words were accompanied by an under-exposed snapshot of Dick wearing a stupid grin and throwing a peace sign, with a bit of some tall guy smoking a cigarette in the background, mostly cut off. Neither the picture nor the message with it's smiley emojis were in any way necessary. It wasn't like she was the jealous type who kept tabs on her boyfriend 24/7, but she was used to such antics. And wasn't it silly that this kind of idiocy made her a little gooey inside? God, what was Dick Grayson doing to her? It was kind of revolting, honestly.

“It's happening guys,” she told everyone, glancing up from her phone as the occupants of the room buzzed with excitement at the confirmation.

The Run-Offs had collectively shown up early in anticipation of the group hosting the infamous Red Hood, minus Grimm who'd phoned her an hour ago with the news that he was going to miss the meeting that night. Someone hadn't shown up for his shift and Grimm had been tapped to fill in. With everyone's votes of confidence and encouragement last week he'd decided to go for the supervisor position his boss had told him about, so his willingness to pull extra hours was going to look really good to the hiring manager when it came time for an interview. While it was a disappointment he wouldn't be there, explaining an ex-con Gorilla to the Red Hood was just one less hassle that she was happy to do without for the evening, so it was probably for the best.

Two chairs down from her in his customary seat, Giz was staring into space in complete bewilderment, shaking his head. “This is so crazy. I can't believe the Red Hood is going to be at our group.”

Next to him, his girlfriend and Shawn's best friend and coworker Pam was leaning against her shoulder, peeking at Shawn's phone. “Is that him, behind Dick?” she asked, squinting at the picture as Shawn angled the screen to give the woman a better view of Dick's dumb photo.

“I think so,” she answered. “Earlier Dick shot me a text warning that his brother was super nervous and smoked through half a carton of cigarettes.” Which was kind of funny. The Red Hood? Nervous of their little group? People, especially those with a past, tended to find it frightening or stressful to speak at groups like this, so it was normal, but the fact that the Red Hood could kill any and all of them, outside of Dick, in ten seconds flat made it seem odd nonetheless.

“Can't make out hide nor hair o' the guy.” Randy grumbled, having risen from his chair to look over her shoulder in interest. After squinting and growing frustrated at the crap selfie he complained, “ _Ugh_ , Dick is terrible at takin' pictures!”

Shawn smirked. “Yes, he is!” she declared emphatically. Dick was forever sending dorky selfies with important things cut off or covered up, as if he was photo-bombing his own images. She couldn't tell if it was poor photography skills or incompetence at handling his phone, though his proficiency with other electronics suggested the former. She didn't especially mind, though. It was nice to know perfect Dick Grayson, the super hero Nightwing, wasn't universally amazing at everything he did. It was also good teasing fodder; she could pretty reliably get a rise out of him by complaining about his habit of blowing up her phone with awful pictures of things she didn't care about.

“ _Please_ tell me Red Hood looks like a nice guy,” Juan-Andrés pleaded. “Or if not nice, at least not homicidal,”

“I don't think you can tell that just from a photo,” was Giz's skeptical contribution.

“'Specially one o' _Dick's_ photos,” Randy added unhappily.

Impossible question or not, she couldn't exactly blame Juan-Andrés from asking it. Shawn had told him last night that she thought he'd be the best person to sponsor Red Hood and he was still freaking out about it. While nearly everyone else in the group was stable, he'd had the most setbacks in the beginning and still occasionally confessed to racing or other relapses. His confidence in himself wasn't especially high and Shawn had decided that giving him responsibility would prove to him that he _could_ do it. Maybe it was a bit of a risk, but Dick was already acting as a sort of sponsor to Hood as well, and he still had both Randy and Grimm to fall back on and Grimm in particular was something of a big brother and steadfast rock to all of them.

Shawn knew he would be fine. Or, she was pretty sure he would be fine. Okay, she wasn't sure, but if nothing else the Red Hood would give Juan-Andrés more to worry about than his own recovery. At most he was expected to be able to talk their newest member down, not actually fight him, so things could only go so wrong, right?

She scanned the poor quality photo for anything that might put Juan-Andrés at ease about their newest attendee but predictably didn't see anything. Dick's face took up two-thirds of it and the rest was mostly in shadow anyway. There was _one_ thing she could confirm, though. The grainy silhouette gave off a real bad boy vibe and if his physique was on par with Dick's, as their shared vigilante-status suggested was the case, then the Red Hood would live up to the 'eye-candy' standard she'd only been half-joking about looking forward to.

“He's got a sexy looking back in a leather jacket, if that's what your asking,” Shawn snickered. Randy made a strangled sort of sound like maybe he agreed but was too embarrassed to say anything outright.

Juan-Andrés frowned, unamused by her jest. “That is _not_ what I'm asking. I just want to make sure I can survive this sponsorship thing.” He ran a hand through his short hair, worriedly staring at the ceiling. “It was only a few years ago that the Red Hood hacked off the head of the leader of the Gotham Street Demonz biker gang and they found it duct-taped to the front of his motorcycle, with the rest of his mutilated body sitting in the seat. I know, because I was still in contact with some of the guys in the gang at the time who found him. They used to show up on the streets to race.”

As he spoke, Shawn felt the blood drain from her face. Pam's hands leapt to cover her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Next to her, Giz grimaced, while Randy paled and swayed like he might faint.

She glanced back down to the picture, seeing it in a new light. Suddenly that silhouette didn't look like Dick's probably hot brother who happened to be the Red Hood, but an internationally wanted criminal and murderer who happened to be Dick's brother.

“Holy shit,” Shawn breathed. “I mean, I knew he was a bad guy, and Dick said he killed people, but actually hearing specifics is kind of...” _Disturbing_.

Was she really okay with this? With Dick bringing the Red Hood here to a group of ex-villains that he may very well have the temptation to murder? It seemed crazy when you put it that way. Dick had seemed so certain that it would be fine, but without his magnetic charm there to assure her, it sounded more and more like a terrible idea.

Ever the logical one, Giz asked, “Well, why did he kill him? What did the guy do?”

They all turned to stare at him like he was crazy, because _severed heads_ _and serial-killer body staging_ _,_ why the hell should anything else matter after knowing that?

But Giz held his hands up in a placating gesture and continued, “Even when he was a real villain Red Hood only went after the worst of the worst and didn't kill indiscriminately, everyone on the net agrees about that much. So, I don't know, maybe this dude deserved it?”

Pam crossed her arms and eyed her boyfriend with disbelief. “I don't think _anyone_ could deserve that, Giz.”

But Juan-Andrés seemed to be amenable to the idea by the begrudging expression on his face. “Actually, this guy might have. It came out he was running a child abduction ring that sold kids to be used in kiddie porn and sex trafficking.”

Pam's brows abruptly snapped together, her posture rigid with outrage. “Alright, maybe he _did_ deserve it,” she revised. “All of us have done bad things, but we would never hurt children, much less... _tha_ _t_ _._ ”

Shawn bit her lip as she listened. If this was true, then frankly she was inclined to agree that the Red Hood might have done the world a favor in dispatching that man, even if his method was a little sick. She worked with kids every day and the thought of someone like that biker gang head getting a hold of any of them sent chills down her spine.

But she was the leader of this ragtag group calling themselves the Run-Offs, this bunch of villains trying to become better people, of friends trying to keep each other afloat, and she knew this kind of mentality was _not_ healthy for any of them.

“No, guys.” Shawn shook her head, forcing herself to be the voice of reason. “Murder is a _crime_ whether they deserved it or not. No matter what the victim did, they're still a victim. We can't act like murder is justifiable if we're trying to help the Red Hood keep from doing it.”

At this, alternating looks of defiance and shame flickered across the faces of her friends, but as her argument sunk in, her friends' expressions settled on understanding. This was the fruit of their time together these many months: that they could look past their initial emotions to the objective truth and make better decisions for themselves. That they all did so with only a little prompting gave Shawn a sense of pride.

“You know,” Giz began thoughtfully, “ordinarily you wouldn't think murder is something difficult to avoid, right? But if your job is being a vigilante and _that_ is the kind of guy you're up against everyday, I can see how it would be a real temptation.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group as she felt her phone buzz again and glanced at it to read the message.

Dick [06:53]: _We're here!_

Ordinarily she would have rolled her eyes at the completely unnecessary heads-up, but for once she was grateful for Dick's quirks as she stilled her nerves just before they all heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. The room was tense with anticipation as everyone watched the door and after a few moments it opened on the familiar figure of Richard Grayson.

Shawn was generally known to be a serious, sometimes sarcastic, hard to get to know individual who didn't suffer fools or much of anything else for that matter. Even if it hadn't already been her natural disposition, when your job was running an underfunded city facility that catered to the hardened children and teens of Blüdhaven's rougher neighborhoods, you got pretty tough-skinned and stern or you wouldn't survive.

So it was constantly a wonder to her how just the sight of Dick's smiling face could lighten her heart and have her own lips stretching to mirror his. Often she was baffled that he would choose to be with someone like her, not just an ex-villain but someone who wasn't particularly exciting, friendly or affectionate, unlike Dick himself. And while Shawn would consider herself cute, and liked to dress fashionably within her means, there was just no comparing her own looks to Dick's golden tan skin, bright blue eyes, dazzling charisma and drool-worthy body, that looked good in anything, even the simple blue polo shirt and jeans and denim jacket he had on tonight.

“Hey guys!” Dick said cheerfully as he entered the room with another man in tow. Everyone greeted him warmly, because whatever their anxieties about the Red Hood, they were easy to forget when within Dick's upbeat orbit. Shawn herself wasn't immune but she managed to tear her gaze away from her damn-near effervescent boyfriend to examine the man who'd followed him inside.

She recognized the brown leather jacket from Dick's sorry excuse of a snapshot, and her interpretation of a bad boy was certainly accurate. But what the shadowed image hadn't communicated was the at least two inches of height and thirty pounds of pure muscle he had on his brother. He was pale-skinned with a wide mouth, dark bangs and a spotting of freckles across his nose that might have been cute if you weren't distracted by his blue-gray eyes erratically darting about the room searching for threats. He had the same honed, cat-like movement that Nightwing did, but Dick usually tried to tone it down in his civilian life. His hands seemed massive, were crisscrossed with scars, and twitched as if their emptiness has a constant source of anxiety. The brown camo pants, worn combat boots and black shirt that fit tight enough to prove he was at least as cut as Dick, didn't exactly help the aggressive image, either.

If there had been any doubt that Dick wasn't bringing the _real_ Red Hood, it pretty much evaporated. She could fully imagine this man murdering criminals and leaving their bodies as a message.

Shawn swallowed and tried to keep her voice normal as she teased her boyfriend. “Thanks for clogging my inbox with texts, by the way. The one about discovering your remote under the cushions at noon, ten seconds after spamming me about every place you were looking and didn't find it, was especially exciting.”

Dick looked sheepish, as she expected, but what she hadn't expected was for his brother to break into a fit of raucous laughter that transformed him from a walking assault charge into a human being. As he continued laughing, Dick's cheeks burned in a rare blush that had Shawn smirking and his brother jabbing him in the side with his elbow.

Dick groaned and tried to hide behind his hands. “It's _not_ that funny, Jay.”

Red Hood—Jay?—sucked in air between laughs and ribbed Dick in a thick Gotham street accent, “I can't believe you pull that shit with your girl, too. _Fuck_ , how do people put up with you? Yer such a friggin' dork!”

“God, I _know_ ,” Shawn found herself agreeing, suddenly realizing that Dick's brother was a kindred soul who knew the pain of being smothered by Dick Grayson's love. “You know he sent me a picture earlier that was basically just his idiotic face with you kind of in the background as an afterthought?”

“The best picture he has of you on his phone is at a fucking sideways angle with his finger in the way,” Jay informed her with a snort of derision that had her grinning. “He's always 'Shawn this' and 'Shawn that' and I'm just wondering what's so great about a chick whose got a fleshy-colored blur for a head.”

Dick sighed and shook his head, obviously feeling he needed to interject before the exchange devolved into a full blown roast. “Shawn, everyone, this is my brother Jason, codenamed the Red Hood.”

Everyone said 'hello' as if in some kind of daze, and sort of stared dumbly at Jason as Dick pointed to everyone in turn and gave him their names before turning back to Shawn, wearing a pout. “I have no idea why I thought the two of you meeting was a good idea. I should have realized you'd team up against me.”

“Yeah, you probably should have,” she said with no sympathy whatsoever as Jason looked equally unrepentant.

Shawn stood from her chair to walk up to their guest and offer her hand. She was less unnerved by the man now that she'd seen him laugh, but Dick's presence next to her was comforting nonetheless. “I'm Shawn Tsang,” she introduced herself. “I lead the meetings here most nights. Dick might have told you already, but I used to be a villain called Defacer back in the day.”

Jason watched her cautiously as he accepted her handshake, large hand all but swallowing her own. She noticed they were a bit clammy and he still looked fidgety, but their exchange seemed to have calmed him slightly compared to how he'd been upon first entering the room, as if every shadow hid ninjas ready to murder him.

“You were some kind of guerrilla graffiti-artist that vandalized statues or something,” he summarized fairly accurately.

“Basically,” she acknowledged, trying to push back the self-conscious feelings she always had when telling someone new about her criminal past. “Now I constrain my art to canvas mostly. Less thrilling, but at least it's socially acceptable.”

Jason was shaking his head with narrowed eyes, and that predatory look he'd had on entering the room was back in spades. “No offense honey, but that's kiddy shit,” he all but spat. “Did you even qualify as a villain?”

She blinked, somewhat taken aback as Dick hissed a warning at him that Jason ignored.

Shawn was a villain. Outside her father and step-mother, everyone had always told her it was so. She lived her life with that label following her everywhere. After all this time, it was bizarre for someone to question if she really deserved it.

“Pigeon, my former mentor, and I would break into property, steal funds or supplies and public monuments,” she said, elaborating on her criminal past as if to prove to him she was a bad person. “We took down guards, sometimes torched buildings. A lot of people got hurt and we cost Gotham over a million dollars. All we cared about was our message, not the people who we hurt.”

Jason listened intently but once she'd finished all he did was shrug. “I wouldn't even bust you on a slow day,” he said dismissively and turned to Dick, jabbing a thumb in her direction. “What was even going on in Gotham at the time for you and B to be going after punks like her?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Like I remember, that was over ten years ago. Besides, there was more to it than that.”

“Yeah, and I'm sure the fact that she was hot had nothing to do with it,” Jason deadpanned.

Dick groaned. “We were both kids. I wasn't even thinking of that.”

The members of the Run-Offs were snickering quietly as this all took place and Shawn figured she should find Dick and Jason's back and forth amusing too, but mostly she was stuck on Jason's denial that she was a villain.

On the one hand she felt offended, because hadn't she been treated like a villain for the things she'd done? Put in juvie, distrusted by the cops, looked down on by everyone who knew her wayward past, had it held against her all her life since. She'd damn well been through enough to call herself an ex-villain, and yet on the other hand she might have always wanted someone to deny it. Shawn had been told she was a bad guy by enough people that she honestly believed it and to be told by someone who'd seen the real dark side of humanity, that on the scale of evil she didn't even make the map, was a strange feeling.

“To be fair, Pigeon and I were pissing off politicians left and right and the news seriously had it out for us,” she explained, for some bizarre reason that she didn't want to psychoanalyze feeling the need to defend her accusers. “Pigeon really hurt some guards too and we even attacked cops when they came after us. We were kind of a big deal for a hot minute. When the police couldn't catch us there was real public outcry for Batman to do something.”

“And now here you are, dating the dickhead who turned you in. Pun intended,” Jason mused while he regarded her questionably. “You sure this isn't a form of Stockholm Syndrome or something?”

Someone behind them guffawed but Shawn couldn't tell who.

“ _Okay,_ I think you've made fun of me enough for the night,” Dick said almost desperately as he tried to physically muzzle his brother by slapping his palms over his mouth, which Jason intercepted with annoyed swats.

“Just remember, you're the one who made me come here,” Jason said, dodging Dick's hands flailing towards his face.

Shawn swallowed, trying to regain control of the meeting. “Take a seat boys, it's time to start.” Actually it was way past time to start, but whatever.

As Dick took his customary chair next to her and shoved Jason down in the new one they'd placed next to him, she said, “Grimm texted me earlier and said he had to work overtime, so he won't be here tonight. Let's just jump in.”

Extracting a folder from her bag, she handed it across Dick to Jason. “I put together this packet for you, Jason. It's got some of the worksheets and handouts we've circulated in the past and some other information. There isn't a lot of literature specific to our needs so it's a hodgepodge of what we've found useful.”

Jason eyed the folder like it might spontaneously explode in his hands, but he did take it from her. After a cursory flip through the photocopies inside he closed it with a vague mumble of acceptance. So far so good, she thought.

“Since this is your first time,” Shawn continued, “why don't you introduce yourself and tell us why you're here and what you hope to get out of the group.”

Jason sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in what she recognized as a classic defensive posture, one leg bouncing with repressed energy. He was quiet, chewing on the inside of his mouth nervously as the group looked to him with expectation. After a moment Shawn thought she might have to step in and either prompt him or maybe even skip the introduction altogether but a pointed stare from Dick seemed to cajole him into making a response.

Jason sat up straighter and crossed one leg over the other, still looking withdrawn. When he spoke, it was in a flat tone with the occasional hint of sarcasm.

“My name is Jason,” he said. “It's my real name. I figured there's no point hiding it after dumbass-Dick gave you all his. I'm the Red Hood. A fun fact about me is that I'm legally dead. I'm here because this asshole that insists I'm his brother looked like he was going to start crying at a sports bar if I didn't agree to come, and that would have been too embarrassing to stomach, so now I'm here. What I hope to get out of this is free dinner every Friday at Dick's expense for making me commute at peak traffic. The chance to embarrass him in front of his new pals is just a bonus.”

Dick made a sound of frustration at Jason's very uninformative and borderline rude intro but didn't otherwise comment, which was probably for the best. Shawn wasn't exactly pleased about it either, but people generally did come to this sort of group initially because they were dragged there by someone or it was court mandated or used as some kind of ultimatum, so the sentiment wasn't unusual.

“So...I guess it's safe to say you're not here because you want to be,” Shawn deduced.

Jason spread his hands in acknowledgment.

“Well, we're happy to have you anyway,” she said and it wasn't a complete lie. Dick had been very happy that Jason had agreed to try the group and she and the rest of the Run-Offs were happy for Dick. Whether the Red Hood's addition stuck at all remained to be seen, though so far he was surprisingly _not_ the worst person the group had ever entertained, so he had that going for him. “If you keep coming, maybe you'll change your mind.”

Jason shrugged.

“We're all open to come to if you have any problems or want to talk, but we also assign specific people to be sponsors, to look out for us and keep us on the right path. We've talked it over in the group and decided that your sponsor would be Juan-Andrés. Raise your hand, will you?”

Juan-Andrés hesitantly put his hand in the air. Apparently meeting the Red Hood hadn't seemed to alleviate his terror of the man one bit. Shawn felt the need to turn to Jason and say, “It's his first time sponsoring, so go easy on him.”

Jason raised a brow. “It's his first time and you're handing him to me? You must hold a grudge against this guy.”

Shawn rolled her eyes and ignored both him and Juan-Andrés' barely audible whimper. While she completely believed that Jason was a very dangerous man as the Red Hood, she was suspecting that 'Jason' as himself was probably more snark than bite most of the time.

“We usually start things off with a discussion or a presentation,” she explained for Jason's benefit. “Last week we decided the discussion topic would be our earliest crimes, why we did them, how they effected us or still effect us, anything of that nature. These behaviors didn't come out of a vacuum, there's usually some underlying emotional or situational issues that started us down that path. If we can gain some understanding of how it all started, then hopefully we can better identify triggers or even come to terms with what we've done.”

The discussion got going like usual. A lot of the information shared were things they'd all touched on before at some point with each other or even discussed at length privately as friends and confidants, but telling it to the group always seemed to have a different kind of impact. Jason, and surprisingly Dick, were quiet through most of it, but Jason's silence in particular was expected, and he did seem to be listening with mild interest and didn't interrupt anyone, so Shawn didn't feel the need to call him out. Better to let him get comfortable with the process in his own way.

“When I was a kid, my mom ran off. But that didn't really bother me because I had my dad and he was _amazing,_ the best dad anyone could ask for _,_ ” Pam shared with wistful affection for the memory of her father. “But when I was thirteen, a freeway overhang that the city had let fall into disrepair collapsed and killed him in his car when he was driving to pick me up from gymnastics practice.”

“It turned out my mom was in jail, so social services put me in foster care. The family wasn't bad, but they didn't care about me, they would never love me like my dad did, and then I heard no one was even going to get punished for the collapse that destroyed my life, so...” She swallowed down bitterness and shame and continued, “So I broke into Gotham city hall to look at the records and found there were _dozens_ of city infrastructure projects in the same state, just waiting to fail...”

She took a deep breath and finished, “Well, I decided that someone had to do something and it might as well be me. Catwoman caught me breaking in that first time and was impressed, so she decided to train me and the rest is history. She was the only one who seemed willing to help me get justice, but by the time I was ready to make my move on Gotham, justice wasn't the only thing I was after. By then, it was more about me, what I could steal, who I could hurt.”

Giz squeezed his girlfriend on the shoulder comfortingly and she leaned in to him with a sigh of relief so he could fit an arm around her. Shawn gave her a smile meant to assure her friend that she was there for her, and Pam's expression in return as every bit the friendly, bubbly and strong young woman that Shawn had come to rely on as both a coworker and her best friend.

“I don't really have a good reason for doing what I have, it was just fun,” Giz apologized with a bit of awkwardness as he addressed the group. “My parents weren't home a lot. I guess you could say they were neglectful, but it didn't feel that way to me, I just spent a lot of time alone and I taught myself to search the net, to write code and to hack. It was like a game, to see how far I could go, to find harder firewalls to crack. I got in with the underground hacking community on the dark net and found out there were people who would actually _pay_ me to do what I liked, so I did that for a while.”

He glanced down at Pam with a smile that she returned, saying, “Eventually I got hired by Pam for a gig and we became partners, which was maybe the one good thing that came out of it all. There's really no excuses for me. I wish I had one, but misplaced enthusiasm is really all I've got. I didn't feel like I was hurting anyone. By the time I realized that wasn't necessarily true I was already in so deep that pulling out would almost have been more dangerous. These guys I was working for could find me, hurt me, hurt my family, hurt Pam...I was just too naïve when it all started to realize what I was really getting into.”

“Naive. That word applied to me, too,” Shawn said, the thought really hitting home for her as soon as Giz had said it. “I was a teenager. My parents had just divorced and I was upset, not taking it well, and my communication skills weren't the best. The only way I could share my feelings was with my art, but my teachers didn't like it, didn't approve of it. Nothing I made was the kind of 'art' they wanted me to make, because it wasn't clean and pretty, it was loud and neon and too urban. It felt like no one understood me, or cared enough to bother trying.”

Shawn realized later that the people who really mattered—her father, the woman who would become her stepmother but who she had firmly rejected and patently loathed at the time—had tried and would have tried even harder if she'd given them any direction at all, but she'd been too blind at the time. Too filled with anger to see the truth.

She continued, “I started to graffiti, first on the buildings at my school, just out of spite, and later just anywhere I thought looked too clean and perfect. It was the only thing that seemed to settle the rage inside of me. Maybe it didn't hurt anyone at first, but it was still a big 'fuck you' to everyone who saw it and pissed off the building owners. When they painted over my creations I did bigger, louder ones just to mess with them.”

Any building that looked too clean and corporate at the time had been a prime target for her. It had all felt like one huge joke that those walls looked so perfect and put together—just like her family had until it was abruptly pulled out from under her by her mom's affairs coming to light—she just couldn’t stand it. She'd had to destroy that perfection, and wasn't it convenient that the neutral brick or stucco made the ideal backdrop for one of her masterworks? Graffiti had been her catharsis when words just seemed to come out tangled and too impotent to do anything but dig her deeper into trouble.

“At some point Pigeon caught me in the act and said how much she liked what I was doing,” Shawn explained. “She told me she could help me get my art seen by even more people, and really make a difference instead of just screwing with warehouse owners on the East End. She was the first person besides my dad to actually encourage my art, so I went along with everything she said. Her opinion was my whole world. Even when she hurt people and wanted me to help her, I didn't question it.”

She thought about Pigeon, in the woman's prison in Gotham. Shawn still visited her regularly, still counted her as a friend. Realistically she knew that it would have been better to cut ties, but she still had hope that Pigeon would one day find what she had: good friends and a meaning to her life that didn't require her to hurt anyone.

“Even now I still care about her,” she confessed. “Bea believed in me when it seemed like no one else did, but in the end what she did and wanted me to do was wrong. I just didn't want to see it.”

Shawn looked up from where she hadn't realized she was staring at her clipboard with the meeting agenda and calender clipped to it, the flimsy particle board digging into her hands as she squeezed it tight. The Run-Offs understanding gazes calmed her and Dick's warm hand brushing up against her fingers steadied her even more until she was able to turn to him and give the vigilante a half smile of reassurance. Looking beyond him, she couldn't quite interpret Jason's expression from next to his brother, but it didn't look judgmental, maybe...approving? Though she didn't know what exactly about her story would garner approval from the Red Hood of all people, and she wasn't sure if said approval was actually a good thing, either.

The moment didn't last, as a few comments and encouragements were traded between everyone and then someone new was telling their story.

“I'm like Giz too, I've got no excuses,” Juan-Andrés shared with them all in that conscience-stricken manner of his that had lessened over many months of group but never quite gone away. “I've got a good family, a big family. Six brothers and sisters. Maybe I always felt like the disappointment out of all my siblings, but by the time I was fourteen it seemed like I couldn't do anything right anyway, so I just sort of gave up. I got into fights, got involved with a gang, did some drugs. Anything I could find that was bad, to be honest. Rebel without a cause, you could say.

“I knew everything I did was wrong from the beginning, and maybe I would have just grown out of it after a while, but after I got a taste of racing there was no going back. It was the only thing I was ever good at. Sometimes I still feel like it's the only thing I'm good at,” Juan-Andrés said wearily, and Shawn had to bite her lip to stop herself from interrupting and telling him that _no,_ it definitely wasn't the only thing he was good at. He took all their confessions in stride, was always the first one to offer to help someone out, he was basically the only reason she wasn't bankrupt from having to buy a new car. Juan-Andrés was honest-to-God magic to her twenty-year-old Suburban's constantly guttering engine.

He continued, “And you can think, 'okay, no big deal, racing is a thing you can do legitimately,' but it isn't really like that. It's expensive, it's dangerous, and it's hard to break into and when it comes down to it my parents wanted me to be something that would make money, that was a sure bet, like a dentist or something. Racing seemed like a selfish, expensive hobby. And by the time I realized that was what I was looking for in my life all along they were in no mood to indulge me. I was a screw up, I didn't deserve anything.” The way he said it made the words sound like something he'd heard way too often. So often he'd believed it, whether it was true or not. “After that I just ran off and it all went down hill from there. It took me a long time to come back from that.”

“Family not understanding is a big part o' how it started fer me,” Randy said, and Shawn knew where this was going and hearing it always broke her heart and set the fire burning in her blood that had made her become Defacer. Randy was maybe the most prone to getting teased in the group—except for Dick, because he was just so damn perfect it felt like a public service to take him down a peg or two—but they were all quick to jump to his defense, with fists if necessary, when it came to outsiders having issues with his sexuality.

“Maybe even since I was a kid I'd known I was gay, and I knew m'family wouldn't like it,” Randy explained, taking off his hat to run his hands through his blond hair nervously. “I wouldn't admit it to m'self for ages and it made me a really angry person. Anyone I felt attracted to, I beat 'em up till my knuckles bled. 'bout near killed some folks. Wasn't like I wanted to, but my pops had always beat on me since I was a tot, so I think that's the only way I knew how t'act. Maybe I thought, that's how you love someone, or maybe that was the closest I could come to getting' m'feelings out. I don't know. I think maybe he knew somehow, so that's why he beat me, but maybe it was a coincidence and he would o' found another excuse if I'd been straight.”

“When I was fifteen he found my porn. My...” Randy's cheeks colored as he specified, “gay porn. And he threw me out on my ass. I was already a big guy, I'd played varsity football as a freshman. People knew me fer that, and fer fightin' so I did muscle work, beat people up fer money, that kinda thing. I got into drugs and steroids to get even bigger. Did some cage fights. Eventually I got hired to do thug work for Penguin and that's when I just stopped giving a damn about whether anything I did was right or wrong. I just plain thought I was unlovable. Figured, no point trying to be good because even if I was it wouldn’t be good enough, I'm just worthless to the core either way. You guys,” he sniffled, rubbing his nose with back of his hands as wetness pooled in his eyes, “you guys are the only ones who ever told me diff'rent.”

Next to him, Juan-Andrés clapped him on the shoulder without hesitation, telling him he'd done good and they were proud of him for sharing as the others of the group piped up to do the same. Randy wiped at his eyes and nodded, maybe still not believing any of it deep down where it counted yet, but he nonetheless was clearly happy with their camaraderie and acceptance.

Shawn looked to Jason, sitting between Randy and Dick. He hadn't said anything while the others spoke, just watched and listened with an expression that appeared very pointedly blank while his arms remained crossed, digging deep crescents into his palms with his nails. It looked like a stress thing, and she was once again confronted with the fact that Dick had not been exaggerating when he'd said the Red Hood was nervous to come here.

Dick didn't talk about his family much with her, except offhand, but she honestly couldn’t recall him mentioning a Jason or the Red Hood at all. She assumed this was because information about the Red Hood was taboo as far as his vigilante-life was concerned. But even during group, the most Dick had really told them was he needed serious therapy but wouldn't take it, that he kept what he'd termed 'the bat-family' at arm's length, that he was hostile towards acts of kindness, and that Dick believed him to be a good person with a good heart.

Well, Shawn didn't know about most of that, but the more she saw of Dick's brother the more she realized he had been dead-on about the therapy from seeing Jason's posture and behavior alone. No one was this constantly keyed-up, this overly-cautious with everyday people, this wary without having a history of abuse or trauma of some kind. Dick himself was the perfect control subject in the sense that it proved even a life as a vigilante from childhood wouldn't instill such behavior.

Shawn wasn't exactly a trained counselor; she had some classes, been to seminars, had interest in that kind of work and put what skills she did have to practice in her job at the community center and here in group. She could only really make educated guesses when it came to how to approach Jason. She didn't want to push him too much but...well, Shawn didn't think it would hurt to give him a nudge and see if he took it.

Dick had warned her ahead of time that his brother had foul language and didn't like to share anything personal, so not to expect much, at least at first. But then Dick was always coming at things head on, she noticed, because he was an open, honest sort of person, and when you were dealing with someone who was closed and guarded, like Jason seemed to be, that kind of behavior was almost guaranteed to have them shutting down.

She'd learned from running this group, from running the center, that you had to handle such people differently. Ask them open-ended questions, present subjects in a way that was natural. If she asked him 'Do you want to share?' Shawn had no doubt he'd say 'no', but if she asked him to comment on what someone else had shared? Now there was some distance, and people liked to give their opinions. She thought this method was worth a try.

She turned to Jason, whose arms were still crossed, his hands now fisted in his leather jacket hard enough to leave permanent cracks. He looked to be desperately ignoring the fact that they'd circled around to him at some point and everyone's gaze had settled on him out of process of elimination.

“Jason, did you find anything the group shared to be similar to you at all?” she asked, and had faith that the group had a diverse enough background that almost no one could say 'no' without straight-up lying.

This proved to be the case as Jason's fingers twitched and he chewed on the inside of his cheek some more, eyes not meeting anyone's as he mumbled, “A little bit, I guess.”

She prodded a little more. “Anything in particular?”

He sighed, face steely and eyes glassy as he itched at a long, viscous looking scare on his neck and glared at the ceiling. “Beat half to death by my dad, yeah, I know that one,” he said, swallowing hard. His voice was hollow, as if he were talking about someone else. “He went to jail when I was eight. Left me to take care of my mom. She died when I was eleven, a toss up between cancer or heroin. They put me in foster care, that was...well, living on the streets was better, I can tell you that. I was a hardened fucking criminal before I was ten years old. I did it all, anything, everything you can think of.”

Dick blinked, looking surprised, and with a gulp of emotion he whispered something that sounded like, “ _Well done, Little Wing,_ ” to his brother who shot him narrowed eyes and a frown for his trouble, which Dick didn't look to take offense to like a normal human being would. 'Little Wing' seemed like a weird-ass endearment, even from Dick, so maybe she'd heard wrong, though.

“When did you get involved with Batman?” Giz asked Jason, and it was _way_ off topic, but honestly she was curious about it too. How did one go from running away from foster care and living on the streets to being the second Robin? Clearly there was a story there and if Jason deigned to share then she wasn't going to tell him not to.

And Jason did answer. “When I was thirteen.” His voice had none of the stilted tension his previous statements had. “He caught me finishing up jacking the batmobile's tires and when he asked me what the hell I thought I was doing I pretty much told him to fuck off and threatened him with a tire iron,” Jason said with a smirk.

This broke the tension in the room as the Run-Offs exchanged chuckles and gasps of awe. Shawn shook her head because the idea should have been ridiculous but from this guy she could absolutely see it.

“You've got to be kidding!” Giz declared doubtfully to Jason, who snorted with affront at being questioned and said that he wasn't.

“For real?” Juan-Andrés exclaimed. He looked to Dick for confirmation and the man just grinned looking nostalgic.

“I still wish I'd been there to see his face,” Dick confirmed, patting his brother's back in a familiar way that had Jason scowling and trying to shove him off. “B has been absolutely paranoid about the batmobile's security ever since.”

Jason seemed unimpressed to hear this. “One, B has always been a paranoid bastard so don't blame that on me. And two, he wasn't paranoid enough to keep me from putting a car bomb under the wheel hub four years later.”

And all the humor and warm feelings fled the room as Dick made an alarmed face. “Wait, that was _you_?” he asked carefully in a tone that was not typical of the Dick Grayson she knew, his brows crinkling with something like dread and solemnity.

Jason raised a confused eyebrow and sounded genuinely insulted. “Uh, _yeah_? Who the hell did you think it was, if not me? You think Two-Face would put a perfectly good bomb in the batmobile and then just _not_ blow it?”

“We never could figure out who it was,” Dick admitted, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. “Everyone was freaked though, after it happened. I mean, if that had gone off it would have killed whoever was inside.”

Jason rolled his eyes with a sneer on his lips. “Yeah, no shit. That was kind of the point.”

Dick wore a rare frown, his voice tight as he questioned, “Why didn't you detonate it? Did something go wrong? Did the detonator fail?”

Jason snorted. “Of course not. You ever know an explosive I made to be anything but a work of fucking art? I just changed my mind. I mean, what was the point of killing him if he didn't know it was me? I wanted him to know _exactly_ who was killing him and why. A car bomb wasn't going to do that.”

And now everyone was thoroughly freaked out. The conversation had long since drifted in a direction that none of the Run-Offs understood. This was something that Dick and Jason would have to figure out between themselves or wait for a better time, because it clearly wasn't relevant to the topic on their agenda.

“Alright, good discussion everyone,” Shawn hastened to move on. Dick hadn't shared, which was unusual for him, but he looked too consumed by emotion, watching his brother with wet-looking eyes and a strain in the set of his jaw, to put together anything coherent.

She opened the group up for triumphs and challenges and things seemed to get back on track. Giz shared that he'd won a two-thousand dollar check for a bug bounty he'd put in for after discovering a weakness in the internet-based operations of a major company. Randy had come out to the new person hired at The Saddle where he worked and things had gone well. Juan-Andrés was having problems with one of his uncle's employees at his own workplace. Pam and Jason had both passed.

“I'm still reveling in the fact that I finally managed to get Jason here—even if I did have to almost cry in a sports bar to do it,” Dick claimed as his 'Triumph', wearing a cheeky smile as he winked as his brother.

Jason promptly made a retching sound and fake-gagged, sending chuckles through the room.

And then it was finally, _finally_ over.

Everyone got up from their chairs and stretched, chatting a bit as they usually did before leaving. Dick meandered over to her to wrap her in a warm hug and give her a peck on the cheek while Jason shuffled stiffly to lean against the wall near the door, ready to bolt at the first opportunity.

“You're amazing Shawn. You _and_ the Run-Offs. Jason said a lot more than I thought he was going to. I'm astonished,” Dick confessed to her privately, and his grateful voice, the way he was looking at her like he'd just witnessed her part the Red Sea, made her fidget and push up her glasses self-consciously

“It's just the first week, Dick.” she said, trying to ignore the faint blush on her cheeks. “We haven't done much of anything yet. You'll notice he didn't sound repentant about anything he mentioned. Not that he should be, exactly. But what he hinted at weren't the crimes that lead him down his path as the Red Hood. That would have been a _real_ breakthrough. But honestly I didn't expect anything like that on the first day.”

Not to mention when he was talking about why he didn't detonate the car bomb. She hadn't entirely understood the context of any of that, and it didn't seem right to interrupt him and Dick as they were talking, lest Jason clam up completely, but his answer had sounded practiced. It looked like a classic self-deception to her. Whatever the actual reason was, he didn't know or didn't want to admit it to himself, so he came up with some other rationalization he thought people would accept.

“No, Shawn. You don't realize how big this is already,” Dick told her with a dark seriousness to his voice. “I'd known his dad went to jail, that his mom died, that he lived on the streets...but that part about his father beating him? I don't think he's ever told _anyone_ that. Not even...not even Batman. And that pause after he mentioned being in foster care? That was...” Dick looked very disturbed and his blue eyes simmered with anger as he said, “That was a _bad_ pause. If it was physical abuse I think he would have just said that after already mentioning his father. I mean, that has got to be...” He bit his lip, as if the idea was too horrible to put a word to.

She glanced back at Jason. Juan-Andrés had gotten a pep talk from Randy, Giz and Pam and was now stuttering out his intent to exchange phone numbers with the man as his sponsor. Jason was regarding Juan Andrés suspiciously but had pulled out his phone nonetheless and was in the process of sending the other man a text while Juan Andrés stood in vague disbelief that he was having what amounted to a conversation with the Red Hood without being pumped full of bullet holes.

“He's had it really rough, huh?” she thought aloud.

“We can't even imagine how rough,” was Dick sorrowful answer.

 


	4. Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Red Hood goes on his first patrol in Bludhaven with Nightwing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer than expected. It started out from Dick's point of view, but at some point it became clear that Jason should really have the spotlight here and I had to do it all over. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and given kudos or recs, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Right, so Jason had already fucked up The Plan. Possibly fucked it up beyond all repair.

Everything had been going fine-ish. Razzing Dick had distracted him enough not to hyperventilate before his brain could process that no, this was _not_ Arkham, not a torture session disguised as a therapy session. And then it started, and the yawningly mundane introduction period and print-out packet distribution had lured him into the secure notion that this would be a boring little self-help wank-fest, just as Dick had implied.

But then everyone had started _talking._

It was a curious thing to watch a stranger bare their soul. Jason hadn't thought he'd hear anything in this jumped-up knitting circle familiar enough to identify with, but damn had he been wrong. Death, abuse, neglect, betrayal, guilt...he knew them all. Knew them intimately, and even he wasn't enough of a piece of shit not to sympathize with someone who'd suffered the same.

Listening to it all, he'd felt a sense of foreboding at the feeling it spurred in his heart. It was the same feeling that urged him to put bullets in child molesters' heads and personally escort hookers to free clinics and woman’s centers. To drop off homemade meals to the homeless shanty on the street corner. To adopt a superman-clone with an expiration date. It was the one that whispered ' _n_ _ot on my watch_ _'_ and had him doing stupid shit before he could even think.

So he'd opened his big mouth. Shawn had asked him to comment and he was only prepared to be so rude for no particular reason. Telling Dick to fuck off was one thing—he could do that any time of day, any day of the week, for no reason at all—but Jason had a healthy respect for women and generally tried not to go all-in asshole on people who didn't deserve it. Plus, hearing her rib on Dick had somewhat endeared him to the chick. He could see what the guy liked about her. If he ever gave a damn who Dick dated he might even approve, but he hadn't before and he wasn't about to now, so whatever.

But he hadn't spoken out for her, and he sure as hell hadn't for Dick either. Jason had done it because he _knew_ what it felt like to be knocked around by your old man, your own blood making your life a living hell, like Randy. What it was like to have your only loving parent die, relegating you into the hands of people who didn't give a rat's ass about you, like Pam. What it was like to not be good enough for anyone, to try so fucking hard and have no one give you an ounce of respect or encouragement, like Juan Andrés. What it was like to be alone. What it was like to be angry. He hadn't exactly poured his heart out, Jason wasn't capable of that, but keeping quiet hadn't felt right either. He hadn't said much, just enough to let them know that _he_ knew all about that pain.

And fuck. He didn't want Dick's pack of ex-villains to become _his people._ That wasn't a possibility he'd ever anticipated. He was already getting attached. Had this been Dick's plan all along? If so, it was manipulative as shit.

After the group ended Jason followed Dick back to his apartment in silence, snarling every time it looked like he might try starting a conversation. He wasn't in the mood to converse, especially not with Dick. Jason had considered lighting up another cigarette, because even Richard seemed to understand that talking wasn't on the menu when he was blowing smoke in the guy's face, but his lungs had been subjected to enough toxins today. If he had any more cigs Jason would be hacking all through patrol and that was just not acceptable. Sometimes he thought he should quit smoking altogether. But then other times he thought cigarettes were the only thing keeping him out of the looney bin and he did _not_ want to go back there, so fuck that.

At least the hard part of the day was over. No one had died. Jason hadn't flung himself out of a window or been strapped to a chair or revealed himself to be too much of a psycho. Dick wasn't pestering him either, which was a wonder. It was fine, he'd survived. Actually, he'd been through worse, though the anxiety-filled lead-up had been a special kind of torture. His guts were still churning and the muscles connected to his spine buzzed from overactive nerves, but he was better. Nothing that bashing a few bad guys wouldn't fix. He was actually looking forward to patrolling in Blüdhaven. It was always fun to put the fear of the Red Hood into a new crowd of assholes.

They made it to Dick's apartment building after a fifteen minute walk, Jason having privately enjoyed watching Dick squirm the whole way. As they came to stand in the elevator, Dick punched the button for the third floor and seemed to decide he no longer cared how much Jason snarled at him, he was going to talk, dammit.

“So?” Dick asked him carefully as the doors to the elevator closed. The sudden inertia as it sped up the floors did Jason's already unsettled stomach no favors. “What did you think? Maybe nerve-wracking at first, but everyone is nice, right?”

His eyes narrowed. Nice? Jason didn't know about nice. He hadn't exactly had a conversation with anyone to find out, unless you counted J.A. sweating bullets as they exchanged phone numbers, but he'd already been prepared to sit through more than one of these things regardless. Dick was never going to be satisfied with a single week of indulging his brotherly instincts. Jason had figured he might knock him down to three if he was particularly uncooperative, but The Plan was already guttering because he'd opened his mouth, so he figured he was stuck with at least six now.

He tried to decide what to say. Short and bitter was the key. “Eh. Bearable, I guess,” he grumbled.

This was apparently a lot more encouraging than he'd meant it to be because Dick's face lit up with hope and said, “So you'll come next week too, won't you?”

Jason responded with a groan and an eye roll. “ _Ugh_. Do I _have_ to?” he moaned just to be an ass, but Dick wasn't dissuaded.

The elevator dinged and the heavy metal door noisily slid open. “Please? At least do six months worth before you quit. Give it a fair chance,” Dick pleaded as they walked out.

Jason scoffed, eyes huge as he stared at Dick like he'd grown a second head. Christ, he'd _really_ fucked up The Plan at some point if Dickie was tossing _six months_ as an opener. “Six mo— _pfft_ , no way in hell _,_ Golden Boy! Six months of that shit? Fuck that. No.”

Navigating the hallway, Dick dug in his back pocket for his keys. He jiggled it into the lock and made enough false turns of the latch to leave Jason making noises of impatience behind him before he finally managed to get the door open. When they stepped through the threshold, Dick sighed in contentment and kicked off his shoes by the door with something that sounded like a moan of ecstasy, Jason doing the same with what he thought to be much more class.

Deactivating all of the motion alarms as they left the alcove that served as a foyer, Dick trundled over to the living room to collapse face-down on his couch. Jason had followed him in and flopped gracelessly onto Dick's other couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Alfred would probably have a cow at this misuse of said piece of furniture, but Dick didn't so much as sniff at the sight, leaving him to believe he abused it in the same way.

“Fmive mumfsh fhen,” Dick garbled, words muffled from his head buried in a pillow.

It took Jason a second to decipher Dick's mumbling and realize they were continuing the negotiation from the hallway on how long he'd put up with Dick's Run-Off friends. He snorted dismissively at the proposed five months and spat, “One month.”

Dick lifted his head, propping himself on one elbow as he used his other arm to dig around in his cushions for his remote and flip on the television. “Four months,” he said as the screen powered on.

“Six weeks. Nonconsecutive,” Jason offered and it sucked because six weeks was already his maximum expected bid.

Dick scanned the cable guide, not appearing to find anything interesting. You see, this was why Jason didn't pay for cable. That and the fact that he didn't own a television. “Twelve weeks, consecutive,” came the distracted reply. “And I'll keep paying for dinner, although you've got more money than me at this point, so that's kind of petty of you.”

Jason huffed at the accusation. Jason Peter Todd? Petty? Never. “Eight weeks.”

“Ten, final offer,” Dick said.

There was a moment of silence as Jason pursed his lips, weighing his odds of arguing him back down—they didn't look good—and then finally grunted, “Fine.” Ten weeks was two months and some change, he could live through that much. Probably. And he was _definitely_ calling today week one, no one had specified that it didn't count!

Dick's face was smug from his victory but Jason ignored him, spreading himself on the couch more comfortably and said, “Hey, turn it to Gotham news. I wanna make sure Biz and Artemis haven't gotten into anything while I've been gone.”

His request was granted as Dick's expression slanted into a smirk of amusement. “I don't know what shenanigans you expect from one afternoon alone. Artemis seems pretty responsible and Bizarro has good intentions at the very least.”

“You clearly don't know them like I do,” Jason deadpanned as the weatherman came on and predicted clouds and more clouds and maybe some nightly rain was in Gotham's future. Not exactly a surprise.

“ _Aw._ You being overprotective is cute,” Dick cooed and Jason picked up a pillow from the couch and chucked it at Dick's face. Even with all his skills in assassination a tossed pillow could only do so much damage, but the blow had Dick rubbing his nose as he chuckled at Jason's narrow-eyed glare.

As it turned out, if Artemis and Bizarro _had_ run into any trouble then it hadn't been newsworthy. Though considering it was Gotham even _they_ would have to make quite the scene to rate the evening news. Maybe he'd been a bit paranoid to bother checking, but they wouldn't call him about problems unless one of them was hurt, which was a feat not easily achieved even by the most determined scumbag. Mostly he worried about Bizarro getting lost in the bad part of town, or Artemis getting them banned from his favorite thug bar. Not that he could do anything about it if they _did_ call, but he liked to make his complaints known.

Jason sighed internally. Sometimes the Outlaws felt less like a vigilante team posing as criminals and more like a babysitting service, past members included. Roy was as much of a child at times as Bizarro and Kori had her moments, especially when it came to human and Tamaranian cultural differences. He often wondered how his teammates managed to function in society before he met them. Well okay, he knew how Bizarro had—by floating in stasis in a bio-tank. Artemis had no excuse, though. The Amazon was a few hundred years old for chrissake and he still couldn't get her to separate her laundry properly.

They watched the news for another twenty minutes or so until the sports came on at which point they both lost interest, and by nine o'clock Dick was already standing in his kitchen wearing his blue-on-black Kevlar mesh suit. He snacked on a granola bar that looked to be sixty-percent chocolate and forty-percent actual granola as he double-checked the contents of his Nightwing gauntlets' compartments and adjusted his domino. Jason, having borrowed Dick's room after he'd used it, joined him fully changed into his Red Hood gear, minus the helmet which he held tucked under one arm.

Jason had ridden into Blüdhaven on his motorcycle in civies with his uniform and weapons stuffed into a backpack he'd bungeed against the seat because wearing it threw off his balance when riding. Dick had insisted it was safe just loitering on his bar despite containing, you know, _loaded firearms_ and incriminating evidence of his identity. It wasn't that Jason hadn't believed him, it was just that he'd accepted long ago that his life invited the impossible to rain all kinds of shit onto him when it was least wanted, so forgive him if he was a little neurotic about leaving his stuff lying in the open.

Despite his concerns the backpack was still there, and Jason extracted from its depths three guns: his two trusty Glocks and a SIG compact. It also produced a massive drop-point bowie knife serrated near the hilt that could cut through a reinforced grapple-line like butter, along with any other damn thing that had the misfortune of pissing Jason off. He checked the guns over, ejecting the magazines and replacing them, fitting the weapons into their holsters—the two Glocks in his hip holsters, then the SIG in a shoulder holster concealed under his jacket, and the knife to his boot—before test-drawing each to remind his body what he had to work with.

Then he slipped on his helmet, feeling himself settle into the persona of Red Hood. Unlike say, Bruce or Tim, he didn't have to hide his personality or skills so much in civilian life. This was in large part because he didn't really _have_ a civilian life. Even so, putting on the Hood gave him extra focus, helped him set aside his nerves to the point of resembling an almost suicidal fearlessness. Some might say it made him more vicious too, but that wasn't the case. It was just that Red Hood was more often confronted with scoundrels than his identity-of-the-week was.

Jason was running his HUD through pre-patrol diagnostics when Nightwing turned to him and said, “Try not to use the guns tonight unless you have to.” He didn't exactly eye Jason's weapons with obvious contempt, but he would bet large amounts of a drug lord’s money that he wanted to.

Jason clicked his tongue in irritation. “Don't worry _Batman,_ both the Glocks are packing rubber. Lead is only in the back-up.”

Nightwing frowned. “Rubber bullets are still dangerous. A head shot has a high lethality.”

 _Ugh_ , Jason had known no one fucking trusted him, but this was becoming ridiculous. How long had he been doing the no-kill shit just for them? With the way the bats acted, you'd think he'd been bathing in blood only a week ago.

“The only person I plan on shooting in the head is you, if you don't lay off,” was Jason's waspish reply. “You're the one who invited me, remember? So don't insult me by telling me how to do my fucking job. You don't see me demanding Nightwing pick up a gun, do you?”

Nightwing bit back a sigh. “You're right, sorry.”

 _Huh_ , he thought curiously. Nightwing had given in more quickly than expected. Jason guessed it was the turnabout that had done it. Dick had carried a gun when he worked for Spyral so he had _no_ room to talk, the fucking hypocrite.

Jason made an offended snuff but there was no point arguing further after receiving an apology; it would just make him seem like the bigger asshole of the two of them. Instead, he looked around at Dick's apartment, wondering when they were going to get this show on the road.

“So how do you sneak out of this place?” he asked. “You got a secret roof hatch somewhere?” Bats always had secret hatches. Personally he thought it was a symptom of the complexity addiction most of them seemed to suffer from, but he would admit that hidden entrances/exits were both handy and deeply cool.

Nightwing's smile was amused. “Nope, just the window,” he said. “The lower floors of the building are owned by a hospice that provides care and housing for the blind. No one to see me come and go in the mask.”

Jason stared. Had Dick seriously moved into an apartment building full of blind people to take advantage of their disability to hide his identity? Now that was...just plain diabolical.

“You utter piece of shit,” he accused Nightwing, not sure himself how much of his tone was genuine outrage and how much was begrudging respect. Because _damn_ , that was Machiavellian-level cunning. “How _dare_ you take advantage of blind people.”

Nightwing began to fluster under the enigmatic gaze of Red Hood. “I thought it was clever, myself,” he said, sounding defensive.

“It's not.” It was, though. “It's ableist.” It sounded like something Jason would do, in fact.

Nightwing visibly wilted. “Well now I feel like shit,” he confided.

Jason smirked behind his helmet as he chastised the other man. “As you should, Dick-face. As you should.” He decided letting his partner for the night believe Jason thought him a discriminatory shitbag was funnier than informing him otherwise

After Jason had his fill of tormenting Nightwing, they piled out of a large window in Dick's bedroom that faced into an alley bordered by another apartment building a few floors higher than his own. Nightwing demonstrating his preferred method of extraction, which consisted of flipping across the alley to a fire escape on the other side and using that to jump onto the roof of his own building. Jason followed his route easily enough to join him there.

Minutes later and they were grappling through the night, the rhythmic swinging, falling, tumbling, running and jumping into the air to do it all over again as familiar to the two former Robins as breathing. In some ways it was cathartic. Jason didn't have to think of anything but keeping his body moving, his center of gravity always over his points of stability. He just followed the near luminous blue stripes of Nightwing's suit as he dashed through the night ahead of him, black-swathed limbs fading eerily into the shadows at one moment and then revealing themselves in the moonlight the next.

It was nostalgic, watching Nightwing's soaring figure. Dick had been born to fly, swinging on a trapeze almost before he could walk, and it showed in the ease of his movement, the way he seemed to defy gravity itself. There was no hesitation, no look of concern, just sheer joy in his expression as he flipped and spun and darted through the air.

Jason had always wished he could be like that, flying high and free like a bird. Like the first Robin, the perfect Robin. But he wasn't Richard Grayson, he was Jason Todd, and the world had been trying to drag him to the ground, to put him in the dirt since he was born. He'd done his best to live up to the legacy but it hadn't been enough. Destiny didn't love him like it loved Dick Grayson. He'd died in the desert a piteous broken thing, having succumbed to the inevitable fall. Even now there was no dancing in the sky for him, just endless grimy streets and the sounds of screaming in the dark. That was where Jason was born and that was where he belonged.

After they'd put a sufficient distance between them and Dick's apartment to throw off any connections between him and his vigilante persona, Nightwing's run came to a pause. Nodding at an office building of adequate height to give them a good vantage point of the city, he grappled up to the roof, Jason in tow.

They retracted their grapples and the athletic lines of Nightwing's limbs became a black silhouette against the glare of the city below as he moved to kneel at the edge of the roof, surveying Blüdhaven in all it's dirty glory. Jason moved to stand behind him, his leather jacket flapping against his body armor in the winds that gusted in from the sea this high above the streets. The glow from the spotlights and colorful attractions from beach-side hotels, resort casinos and boardwalk amusements turned the coastline into a glittering necklace abutting the highrises of downtown. Jason's helmet filtered the air so he couldn't smell anything, but he knew that this high up the usual stink of salt and smog and rotten fish would be diffuse, and you could almost call Blüdhaven beautiful.

Still, it was no Gotham.

Nightwing looked back at him, a grin splitting his wind-blown face as he pointed out towards the expanse of the city. “That's downtown, the boardwalk strip, the old Sea Land park. The Marcus Casino, Soledad Casino, the Pearl Resort. Over there is the Brazilian Quarter, where we had dinner. China Town, the business district, the Waterloo Docks. Meadowdale Mall—not actually a mall—and then on into the residential areas.”

He shook his head. “It looks like a dump, trumped up with some casino lights and a whaler gimmick,” Jason said through the modulation of his Red Hood helmet. “Frankly, I don't see the appeal. Why Blüdhaven? If you just wanted to get away from Batman and the Titans then you could go anywhere. Why here?”

The Nightwing domino mask obscured a lot of his brow movement, but the line of his mouth betrayed the difficulty of the question. “It's close to Gotham,” he began, looking back down at the streets with glassy eyes. “A big place with no one looking after it. Crime-ridden and corrupt as hell. Why _not_ Blüdhaven? After getting out of Spyral I was a bit lost. I just wanted a place where I could get back to basics without anyone breathing down my neck, noticing how messed up I was. A place to learn to be Nightwing again, instead of Agent 37. This place was what Nightwing needed. What _I_ needed.”

Jason reached his hand up to itch at his neck scar, but stopped when his glove met his armor, letting it fall back down with a sigh. It was strange to think of Nightwing, of Dick Grayson, being anything but confident, perfect and in control. Sure, Jason knew he was a human being who had faults, but all his weaknesses seemed to be the good kind—his bold emotions, his willingness to trust where others didn't, his flair for theatrics. It all just made him shine more brightly against the darkness. In the back of his mind, Jason assumed Dick had concerns and problems like everyone else, but unless the problem was Jason himself, the man never confided in him.

This small glimpse behind the mask—and wasn't it ironic because Dick was in his Nightwing uniform when it happened?—was something different from anything they had before. Different even than when Jason was fifteen and Dick was nineteen and they'd lived under the same roof as something like family. Jason didn't know how to feel about that.

He swallowed with an intense need to change the subject. “Well, are the criminals as cooky as Gotham's? Because somehow I doubt that's possible.”

Nightwing smiled at the question. They might complain about it, but even Jason was almost fond of the way Gotham churned out costumed idiots each more ridiculous than the last. “Not so far, no,” he acknowledged. “But there's an underground ring of weapons dealers calling themselves The Second Hand that's made things pretty interesting around here in the worst way. They're handing out next-gen and alien tech like candy. Even the common street thugs are armed with this stuff.”

The Second Hand? Never heard of it. “Second Hand, huh?” Jason quipped. “I bet their prices are half what you'd pay from 'The _First_ Hand'. Nothing like refurbished products to cut costs. Why buy new when you can buy used?”

Nightwing chuckled as Jason expected him to. It was a Dick Grayson-level pun, of course the loser himself thought it was funny. “I don't think that's where the name comes from. Or, actually I have no idea where the name comes from, so maybe that is it.”

“You don't know?” Jason was surprised. “The ones with pretentious names are usually real vocal about that kind of shit. These guys must be _really_ underground.”

Nightwing stood up from his gargoyle-like crouch at the edge of the roof, regarding Jason seriously as he said, “Yeah, but I'm working on it. Giz has been hacking into the weapons I confiscate. There's still residual code from whoever took out the security protocols and such from the software after stealing them initially. It's just a matter of time before I get something incriminating.”

Jason frowned behind his mask. Giz? Wasn't that the strangely buff Asian dude with pink hair from the support group who was a former black-hat hacker of some description? The guy was supposed to be recovering from criminality or something and yet Dick seemed to think it was okay to drag someone like that into his unsanctioned and _illegal_ vigilante work. What the fuck, but that kind of pissed Jason off. He knew better than anyone how like a black hole the criminal seep was. It was dark, empty and deadly and once it got it's hooks in it dragged you kicking and screaming into it's hellish depths. If Dick gave a damn about his Run-Off friends, then he should keep them as far away from his shit as he could.

“The Giz from the group? Are you sure that's a good idea?” Jason asked, letting his incredulity seep into his voice since the scowl wasn't readily apparent.

“He's really good at hacking and internet research,” Nightwing explained, reading the completely wrong thing into Jason's anxieties. “Way better than me. Almost as good as Tim.”

“That's _not_ what I mean,” Jason snarled. “Asking that guy to hack into weapons for you is like asking Roy to take a job as a cocaine-peddling moonshiner. Even if he didn't relapse, it would still be a shitty thing to do.”

Nightwing blinked in sudden understanding, but just brushed off Jason's concerns. “It's not the same thing. Giz still hacks into stuff for a living he just does it legally, looking for securities weaknesses for software companies. This is right in his line.”

Jason gave an angry chuff. Friggin' typical. Nobody ever listened to him. Why would he expect this to be any different?

“I still think it's a bad idea,” Jason said, not wanting to let the subject go.

He crossed his arms, drumming the fingers of one hand on his opposite arm as he considered what he could do or say to change Dick's mind, but ultimately he came up with nothing. Jason had known these people for all of a few hours, his opinion wouldn't mean anything to Dick—not that his opinion _ever_ meant something to Dick, no matter what the subject. And maybe he was wrong and there was no danger. Maybe it was just Jason's admittedly rampant paranoia rearing its ugly head, but it bothered him that Dick seemed so oblivious to the consequences of his actions.

In the end the best he could do was ask, “Want me to look into it on my end?” If he couldn’t make Dick pull Giz off the case then at least he could try making the guy obsolete before the nerd fell into trouble.

Nightwing perked up in surprise. Jason didn't typically _offer_ Red Hood's help to _anyone_ , unless he was explicitly getting payed for it. Outside of city-wide emergencies, the bats had to pry Hood's assistance out of him with nagging, pleading, blackmail and pints of their own blood. Dick had only gotten Jason to pick up the case he'd swiped from his cop friend by trapping him in a restaurant and tugging on every emotional hook the man had ever dug into him. Jason didn't exactly need more work, especially now that Red Hood's Fridays had been co-opted by Nightwing, but he supposed he could make an exception this once.

“Sure, if you don't mind,” Nightwing accepted. “I'd be grateful if you could find anything. Though they don't seem connected to Gotham, despite the proximity. ”

Jason made a thoughtful sound considering who, in the vast network of Gotham thugs which he had access to, could give him something useful. The Second Hand wasn't a name he'd come across before, but then his focus was somewhat narrow. You had to be a certain kind of criminal to garner Red Hood's personal attention. Still, he had confidence in his resources. Since ousting Black Mask he even had a standing invitation to monthly villain poker nights in Gotham. He didn't attend—it wasn't like he wanted to spend quality time with the scumbags he was trying to run out of business, and the buy in was fucking outrageous besides—but the option was there. Well, he'd just have to see what he could find.

Glancing out over Blüdhaven one last time before they got going, something occurred to Jason. “Hey, where's that billboard they put up with you on it?”

Nightwing groaned with embarassment. “Oh that. They took it down, _thank God._ ”

“You know, I had a billboard once too,” Jason felt the need to point out. No particular reason why. He just thought Nightwing ought to know he wasn't the only bat cool enough to be showcased on a large, publicly displayed advertisement.

Nightwing snorted and choked down a laugh, which wasn't the reaction he'd wanted. “Oh yeah, for the Rent-A-Bat thing you had going there. Nice trademark, by the way.”

Suddenly Jason wanted to distance himself from this subject as quickly as possible. “Roy came up with it. The whole thing was Roy, actually. My only involvement was as the victim.”

Nightwing smirked. “You know, you keep insisting Roy is better than Wally. But Wally has never shanghaied me into a mercenary team-up, put up an embarrassing billboard with me on it, spent all my money on a Youtube commercial for said business or pissed off his former mercenary-venture enough to have them come after me in retaliation.”

Jason glared from behind his helmet. “Shut up.”

At this, Nightwing smirked and shot off a line, leaping off the building into the night. Jason heard the distinctive sounds of snickering through his comms as he grumbled to himself about annoying redheads and shot his own grapple gun, following Nightwing into a long dive towards the streets.

Patrolling with Nightwing was...different.

To be perfectly honest Jason hadn't 'patrolled' much at all since taking up the Red Hood mantle. His nights were spent scoping out targets and conducting missions that had been preselected for his special touch. It was common for him to step in if something happened right in front of him, but the closest he got to actively looking for crimes to foil were his bi-monthly collection nights, when he payed a visit to all the dealers and agents he had in Park Row and took their 'tribute', folding that in with a bit of crime fighting to forestall the boredom of the task. Actual 'patrolling' such as the bats did wasn't something he'd participated in since he'd been Robin.

On the whole though he remembered how. It was simple really, just go from point A to point B to point C, with your eyes peeled and your ears pricked for suspicious activity. It consisted of more swinging and grappling than he tended to get up to on his own, but otherwise nothing especially different. No, what was 'different' was doing it with Nightwing.

In a lot of ways, working with Nightwing was like working with Batman minus almost everything he hated about doing that. Best of both worlds, you could say. Dick was powerful, agile, and highly competent in all forms of vigilantism, and Jason had forgotten what it was like to have him at your side. Jason worked so rarely with the family that he couldn't even remember the last time Nightwing and Red Hood had been on the same mission, much less partnered up. The fact that Tim and Damian were pretty much at each others throats whenever forced together meant that inevitably Jason and Dick were split up to keep the younger two apart. Patrolling with him like tonight was something that might not have happened since before Jason's murder at the hands of the Joker.

Everything was seamless, it all felt easy. It was an intoxicating feeling of invincibility that he had to warn himself was a lie. A Red Hood and Nightwing team-up might be serious overkill for the everyday criminals they were likely to roll up on in Blüdhaven, but in the midst of a _real_ crisis this thrum of confidence could lead to a false sense of security.

Had running with Nightwing always been like this? It was hard to remember. Accessing the memories from before Jason's death was often literally like lighting his brain on fire; as if they were reservoirs where the acid waters of the Lazarus Pit had collected. Reflecting too deeply on the past was almost a physical pain.

It was difficult to be sure from the surface memories of those days, long ago, when Jason was Robin and Dick had finally made up enough with Bruce to treat Jason's existence like something other than a personal insult, but he didn't think it had ever been like this between them. Maybe this wasn't a resurgence of something from back then, maybe it was something new. Maybe it was only because they'd both grown up that it felt this way. And like so many things bat and family related, he didn't know how to feel about that, so Jason decided to ignore it and focus on the job.

The night was young, but it was dark and apparently crime-ridden. They were dashing along the roofs of China Town, the lights from paper lanterns and back-lit signs in Cantonese painting the back alleys branching off the main pedestrian thoroughfare in burning red and gold when Nightwing and Red Hood came upon their first customer for an ass-kicking.

It was your garden-variety mugging, a real classic. The perp wore a black coat and beanie that made him look like an extra from _Moby Dick_ , and was in the process of threatening an Asian woman and her blonde friend at knife-point behind a noodle house. The asshole got about as far as, “Jus' hand over yer cash and nobody gets hu—!” before Nightwing flung a wingding, sending it in the perfect arc to leave a shallow slice on the guys fingers, the weapon falling with a clatter as he gasped from pain.

As Jason was just reaching the roof's edge, Nightwing was already flipping off the building, diving like a falcon through the air to kick the sleaze squarely in the side of the head. His kick knocked the mugger airborne, crashing down to roll into the side of a garbage can a few feet away. The two women screamed in stereo, grabbing for each other.

Well damn.

“Hey, I wanted to do that!” Jason complained as he dropped down to street level only a second later.

The mugger groaned and attempted to rise, surprisingly resilient for scum. Vaguely annoyed at being beaten to the punch, Jason took his irritation out on the loser, stomping a boot into the guy's spine and cramming him into the pavement. The mugger whimpered as he collapsed back into the ground and seemed to decide against trying again. Good move on his part.

As for the women, they stared open-mouthed at the vigilante who'd rescued them before falling onto the man with professions of gratitude which quickly devolved into thinly veiled flirtations. They crowded Nightwing with stars in their eyes, dazzled by his stupidly handsome face and brave heroics.

“Nightwing! It's Nightwing, I can't believe it, you're even hotter than your billboard!” the blonde gushed.

The other woman was fishing her cellphone from her purse. “Tina, quick, take a picture with Nightwing's arms around me! If I post this on my Twitter it will _so_ piss off my ex!”

“All in a night's work, ladies,” Nightwing said and gave an actual fucking bow, like he was on a stage or something. Friggin' attention whore.

As Nightwing played the knight-in-shining armor, giving both women a dashing smile while he tried to shuttle them back towards the main street, Jason could only shake his head. Maybe it was because they weren't used to vigilantes winging around, or maybe Blüdhaveners were a simpering, superficial lot, but they weren't no Gotham girls, that's all Jason was saying. In _his_ town the ladies you saved were as like to punch you in the face as look at you and he liked it better that way.

He zip-cuffed their prize while Nightwing used the comms link in his domino to put in an anonymous call to the BPD regarding the incident. The women ignored Red Hood completely, suggesting they didn't know who he was and didn't particularly care as long as they could bask in Nightwing's presence unbothered.

After clicking off his channel with the police, Nightwing aimed a smug look Jason's way. “First come, first served. You've got to be quick if you're going to patrol with me!”

Jason snuffed and drew one of his Glocks, racking the slide with a nice _cha-shick!_ just for the delicious sound effect. “So what you're saying is I should just shoot you and make the grab myself if you jump ahead of me, is that it?”

The girls' eyes widened at the sight of his weapon and Nightwing hastily stepped in front of them, his open hands shooting up to make a gesture of reassurance. “He's kidding,” he said, attempting to charm them with his blindingly white teeth. It seemed to work. “We'll take care of this guy. Have a good evening ladies, stay safe.”

“Maybe don't walk down any more dark alleys,” Jason suggested as the women nervously shuffled past him and back towards the main street. “They're like the muggers' natural habitat.”

They waited in the alley until an officer on a bicycle turned the corner, then they slipped away like shadows, the two once again on the hunt for low-lives to bust.

Next they interrupted a car-jacking, Nightwing again pulling off what seemed to be his signature move: the no-look-triple-flip-off-a-roof-into-a-dive-kick special. After that, they broke up a bar-fight that had gotten so out of hand, it had spilled outside of the establishment onto the wharf. This time Jason actually got some action, wading into the fray and all but tossing anyone he could reach bodily down the street and out of his way until he got to the primary aggressors. It turned out the epicenter was a couple gang bangers with honest-to-god orca masks on their head who'd jumped a party of out-of-towners.

While Nightwing organized the mob with all his charm as a billboard-celebrity, Jason laid out each one of the idiots still trying to fight with a brutal headbutt, just to prove he could take way more damage than them and not give a fuck about it. He didn't have any problems after that because they were all too dizzy to do anything but fumble around as he zip-cuffed them. Nightwing called the cops again because the bar was too dodgy for the owner to have done it himself.

All in all things were going swimmingly, but by the fourth incident—a gas station hold-up—it became clear that something was seriously fucking wrong with Nightwing's head.

The crime was hilariously visible, the gas station interior brightly lit even after midnight, it's entire wall observing the gas pumps paned in tempered glass. Anyone walking by would see exactly what was happening, though the two guys with guns would probably dissuade them from doing anything about it.

Jason held back, flattening himself against the nearby roof of a derelict strip mall, analyzing the situation—two gunmen in black hoodies, one with his pistol trained on the cashier, the other looked to be raiding the alcohol shelves and keeping an eye on the street. Two entrances, one in front of the cashier counter and an employee entrance round the back. The approach was wide open, any route they took to the shop giving the gunmen ample visibility to see them coming and do something about it. Those windows would be a bitch to bust in but easy for the perps to shoot through, so the door was the only real way inside, shitty as it was, since the guy holding up the cashier could easily take advantage of the bottleneck.

Since the teenage cashier was cooperating and they didn't look too jumpy, Jason had just about decided it would be safest to let the robbers take the money and run outside where they would be easier pickings. But as he was about to suggest as much Nightwing whispered, “Back me up,” across the comms, already dashing ahead.

Jason had just enough time to screw up his face in confusion and mutter, “The hell?” behind his Red Hood helmet before Nightwing was leaping off the roof with an aerial flourish, no thought for his safety as he hurtled to the street and into the line of fire. The faint _swoosh_ of Nightwing's movement couldn't be heard, but the gas station was as well lit outside as in and the robber on guard caught the flicker of Nightwing's movement and called out to his friend. An instant later both perps were popping off rounds through the windows, clouding Jason's view inside with splintered webs of broken glass while deafening gunshots rang out in the street.

“Fuck!” Jason cursed and drew his Glocks. Fucking Grayson and his tendency to leap before he looked! You see, this was why his parents were dead, okay? No survival instincts. The guy's genetics had screwed him from the start.

Jason slid off the roof, running low with both weapons ready, trying to keep the pumps in the way of the gunman as much as he could to close the approach. He couldn't make out what the guy in the back was doing, but the robber at the cashier had backed up behind a display, peaking one eye and a gun around the side to take aim at Nightwing, who was ducking and jumping to make things as difficult as possible for him. Nightwing tried tossing in wingdings, but the man sought cover quick enough to dodge and was back to shooting before the vigilante could make any real progress with entering the building.

Goddammit, but this was why he wanted to wait. “Out of the way,” Jason signaled across the comms and Nightwing dropped into a slide through the doorway of the station. Jason's Glocks jumped with recoil as he laid down cover fire for Nightwing to make his way inside, rolling and crawling under the bullets. He heard the gunmen shout to each other but couldn't make out the words over the sound of his own gunfire.

“I'm going around the other side of the displays,” Nightwing informed him over the comm. “I'll see if I can grab the lookout.”

“Copy that,” Jason responded, his heart pounding in his ears with adrenaline as he stepped through the doorway, vaulting over the cashier counter and dropping behind cover. He'd expected to find someone cowering there with him and in need of reassurance, but the space was empty except for some stray shards of glass. Fuck.

“We've got a problem,” Jason said. “The cashier's gone.”

Jason heard another shout and the sounds of an ass-whooping as he shuffled to the edge of the counter to peer down the interior row of displays. He peeked around in time to see Nightwing perform a palm strike to one robber's chest and hook his leg with a foot, toppling him to the ground with a grunt of pain. “One down,” Nightwing said as he knelt on the perp's back, putting his weight on his knee to keep the criminal grounded while he zip-cuffed him. “I don't see the other guy or the cashier.”

Well that wasn't good. Jason stood from his cover, the ten-year old pop music playing on the store's speakers suddenly seeming as loud as the gunshots had been a moment ago. The gas station store's floor was now riddled with glass and toppled bags of chips and beef jerky, making it difficult to navigate. His ears strained to listen for the enemy as he carefully walked the rows of displays with his guns at the ready while Nightwing sneaked around doing the same. The building was small and there were only so many places to hide and Jason quickly found he'd investigated the entire room with only the bathrooms and back room left.

“Not here,” Nightwing said and stalked over to his guy on the ground, jabbing an eskrima stick into his back painfully. “Care to tell us where they went?”

The captured robber squirmed in his restraints and spat at the ground, grunting, “Fuck you! I ain't telling you shit, Night- _wang_!”

Ha. Good one.

Since asshole number one had proven uncooperative, it was time for plan B. “You check the bathrooms, I'll check the back,” Jason said.

“Copy,” Nightwing agreed, and he moved to carry out said operation as Jason pushed through an 'employees only' door near the cashier's counter, leading to a small supply area in the back. It was crowded and narrow, mostly populated with crates and boxes. There was an electrical box on the back wall and an alcove on the exterior side that probably let out to the back door. Jason approached the corner of the alcove cautiously and found it empty except for the expected door—a door that was half open.

Bingo.

“Bathrooms are empty,” Nightwing said over the comm as Jason used the heavy door as cover to step outside into the night.

He was met with an offshore breeze and the sounds of traffic, dogs barking, distance sirens and the unmistakable scuff of shoes on asphalt and stifled noises of fear. When Jason stepped out from behind the door, gun still trained in front of him, he saw what he expected to see: the missing gunman with one arm around the neck of a shaking teenage cashier, the muzzle of his gun shoved against the hostage's head of orangey curls.

“They're out back. Cashier is a hostage,” Jason said into his comm as he regarded the scene with disgust.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Nightwing hissed.

The gunman was a white man with tanned skin and dark eyes, his hand solid on his weapon as he snarled at Jason and pressed his gun harder into the pimple-faced kid he had maneuvered in front of him as a shield. “Put the gun down or I blow this kid's head off,” he warned Jason.

Jason sighed. This old bit? Both of his primaries were loaded with rubber bullets, just as he'd told Dick earlier that night, but this guy didn't know that. So why would he give the robber with the hostage all the power by dropping his guns? That would just be stupid. The perp wasn't likely to kill the kid; if he did there would be nothing stopping Jason from gunning him down right here. “You drop the kid, I drop you,” Jason promised darkly, not easing up on the trigger of his own weapon.

“I'll kill him,” the robber threatened, but a waiver had entered his voice once Jason didn't immediately back off. The kid let out a whimper and nearly stumbled as the gunman tried backing them up towards the corner of the building with his gun still on his temple.

“And then what, die by my hand? Is that your master plan?” Jason asked, the digital modulation in his helmet really upping the scorn in his words. “Because unless you put _your_ gun down, that's the only outcome I see.”

“Is that something a vigilante should say? You're not going to kill me but I'll kill him, you idiot!” The robber made an angry, confused face and squeezed the kid tighter around the neck while the boy sucked in air in sharp, hurried breaths. The hostage's large blue eyes were terrified and silently pleading with Jason for help. It wasn't that he didn't sympathize, but if Red Hood showed any weakness here by giving reassurance, then the situation could deteriorate very quickly. He had to play up his heartlessness to make this work.

“Do I look like a vigilante to you, dumbass?” Jason spat with menace, his temper flaring and really bringing out his Gotham street accent. “Now you put that fuckin' gun down, and I'll just turn your gun-hand into hamburger 'stead of spattering your brain matter on the stucco like a damn Jackson Pollock.”

Jason took a heavy step forward and the gunman suddenly looked uncertain. For the first time he seemed to register Jason’s body armor, tactical gear and red helmet, the whole intimidating package very un-hero-like, lending credence to his threats. Most Blüdhaveners knew Nightwing, knew how he worked, but they didn't know the Red Hood, and he wasn't one for playing by bat rules.

The perp swallowed nervously, tucking his body further behind the teenage hostage, as if finally clued-in to the danger before him. “Who the fuck _are_ you?” he demanded, his hands starting to shake.

“Red Hood. World-class killer, outlaw, and occasional savior.”

By the way the blood drained from the guy's face, he clearly recognized the name. Good, that should speed things along nicely. “You were with Nightwing, he wouldn't let you kill me!” the guy said, but he didn't sound confident.

“If he has a problem with it, I'll just kill him, too,” Jason lied easily, a certain eagerness to his tone. Red Hood had a well-earned reputation of giving absolutely no fucks for vigilante presence when he decided a murder was in order. Also, for outright attacking said vigilantes.

The robber's forehead actually fell down to the hostage teenager's shoulder, his gun hand shaking as Jason took another step forward, now within arm's reach of the robber's weapon. The perp cursed, “Fuck!” and then cursed again, “Fuck...” more quietly in a near sob, the outline of his shoulders under his black hoodie now trembling.

“Drop the gun,” Jason commanded one more time. “My fingers are getting tired. I might just squeeze off a shot to give them a rest. Maybe it'll hit you, maybe it'll hit the kid, but either way, my second bullet is going in your head.”

“ _Fuck,”_ he cursed one last time with feeling and shoved the kid away, lowering his weapon.

The teenager scrambled to put distance between himself and his aggressor on legs that didn't want to hold him and sank to the ground against the exterior wall of the store, bursting into tears instantly. As he did so, Jason snatched the weapon from the perp, flicking on the safety with a finger, his other hand with his Glock still on the robber. For lack of anywhere else to put it, he shoved the handgun in his empty holster.

“On your knees, hands in the air,” Jason said, and the criminal hastened to comply.

As Jason was zip-cuffing the guy and patting him down for anything else nasty, Nightwing dropped from the roof to stand beside him with cat-like grace and silence.

“Nice job.” Nightwing said, wearing a smile that really wasn't appropriate for the situation in Jason's opinion. It should be professionally blank. They were supposed to be badasses, after all. “Not sure if I agree with letting him believe you'd _kill_ him, but I guess it worked.”

Jason snuffed. So Nightwing had seen some of that. He supposed it didn't matter. The vigilante might have been crouching on the roof the whole time, but there wasn't much he could do up there but watch when the hostage had a gun to his head. You had to fight fire with fire, that's what Batman and his people just didn't understand.

“What?! You weren't gonna do it?” the robber exclaimed and Jason kicked him to the ground to shut him up.

“I reserve the right to change my mind at any point, dipshit,” Jason informed his catch. Gee thanks, Nightwing. The jerk was determined to ruin Red Hood's street cred at every turn, it seemed. “But for now it's time to give you your prize for following instructions. Let it not be said the Red Hood doesn't keep his promises.”

“Hood?” Nightwing frowned in confusion as Jason motioned for the perp to place his hands flat on the ground, which he did after a bit of tugging at his zip-cuffs. The guy looked more incredulous than afraid, clearly not understanding what was going on.

“Hood, what are you doing?” Nightwing said, now looking worried.

Jason didn't spare a glance at him. The stupid idiot had run in like a martyr. Any one of the bullets this guy or the other one had shot off could have ended up in his temple just by sheer luck or accident. Was he in that much of a hurry to die? This whole incident had pissed Jason off and frankly Nightwing's habit of rushing to his demise was to blame. The vigilante didn't get a say in what was going to happen next. This was Jason protecting him. This was Jason protecting _everyone._

“You're right handed, aren't ya? Hold this for me,” Jason told the gunman.

And in one smooth motion Jason drew his SIG compact from the holster under his jacket and put a lead bullet in the bastard's hand.

 


	5. Own Your Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason and Dick fumble for understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That cliffhanger though. This chapter took a while longer than those before have, but it's fairly dense with thoughts and feelings and all that tasty junk. I promise I worked hard on it and didn't play Monster Hunter World on PS4 more than strictly necessary...or, maybe not so strictly...look, I worked hard on both, okay? 
> 
> I love you guys, thank you all for supporting this fic, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Dick flinched at the unexpected gunshot only feet from his ears. Where Red Hood had indicated for the perp to splay his hands on the ground, the man's right palm had blossomed into a bleeding hole, spattering shards of bone and a spray of red blood at Hood's feet and the robber's face and arms.

The robber released an agonizing scream and snatched his hands underneath him, curling into a ball on the ground.

“Red! _What the hell!?_ ” Dick shouted in horror, torn between finding something to staunch the man's wound and shoving Red Hood against the wall.

Instinct and training told him to secure the area first, but even as he prepared himself for the fight of his life to take down the Red Hood, Dick saw his brother holster the gun, the one with lethal ammunition he'd claimed was a back-up. The other with rubber bullets was still in his other hand but pointed at the ground, and Dick had already seen that it's holster was occupied by the weapon he'd taken from the criminal at his feet, so he didn't have much choice but to hold it.

After a moment's hesitation, Dick decided it was safe enough to examine the injured robber so he knelt on the ground and tugged at the sleeve of the man's thin black hoodie until it ripped into something like a strip that he could use to wrap his hand. This same robber who'd taken potshots at Nightwing from behind a display of overpriced candy bars only moments ago, was now shaking at his touch, letting Dick manipulate him like a frightened child as he tied a knot over the wound to staunch the blood flow. Obviously Dick vastly preferred this easy obedience to getting shot at, but that it came about as a result of his own brother's cruel idea of vengeance just made him sick inside.

“I told him if he dropped the gun I'd only fuck up his hand,” Hood stated in a matter-of fact tone, looming above their position on the ground, dangerous and implacable. The strange quality of the modulation from his helmet mixed with his casual savagery was enough to make Dick shiver. “Punishment dispensed. Frankly, he's getting off easy.”

Dick's temper flared. There was nothing 'easy' about this callous act of mutilation. He turned from his patient to shout back, “You also told _me_ you'd only use rubber bullets! So what the fuck is _this_?”

Red Hood gave a derisive snort, an arrogant tilt to his head. “No, I told you if you didn't stop _nagging_ me I'd shoot you in the head. That is the sum total of promises I made to you.”

His shoulders taut as he glared up at his brother, Dick found the harsh angle ineffective at communicating how utterly furious he was at the other man. He took to his feet with his hands fisted at his sides and shaking with contained rage, but Dick was still shorter than his counterpart. It had never bothered him to know his little brother was taller than him, though Jay himself got a kick out of it. It suddenly grated on him now.

Technically what Red Hood said was true. Jason hadn't quite promised him anything, but he _knew_ that kind of explanation wouldn't fly with Dick. He might not have spelled out exactly how he wanted Red Hood to operate in Blüdhaven, but he shouldn't need to. Jason was aware of the rules, where the hard lines were drawn. Once he'd lived and worked by them the same as Dick did now. Clearly Hood wasn't surprised that Dick was upset by his actions, so he'd consciously known this kind of behavior was unacceptable, but he'd done it anyway. The only question was why.

“You _knew_ what I expected from you in my city,” Dick countered through grit teeth. “You agreed to it just by being here with me.”

Something seemed to snap and where Red Hood was frustratingly calm only moments ago now he thundered irately, pushing threateningly into Dick's personal space. “Well that was before you let this asshole take a kid hostage right in front of me!”

Dick's eyes widened and he recoiled in confusion. “ _I_ let—?!” Was Jason seriously blaming _him_ for the robber taking a hostage? How could this possibly be Dick's fault? It wasn't, but even if it had been that didn't excuse anything Jason had done, it was just deflecting responsibility.

Hood stabbed him in the chest with an accusatory finger, and Dick resisted the urge to take a step back. “Yes, _you_! We could have waited for them to leave the shop and took them outside, but fucking _Nightwing_ has to rush in like a blithering moron and almost get the civilian and himself killed!”

Dick scowled, caught between indignation and absurd amusement at Red Hood using the word 'blithering' unironically. At any other time it might be funny, but at the moment he was just pissed off. This was basic stuff: neither of them knew the robbers' history, they couldn't read minds or tell the future, they couldn't trust the kinds of assumptions Hood was making. Maybe the robbers would have left the cashier peacefully but then again they could have plugged him in the head to tie up loose ends. Jason didn't know, _couldn't_ know, and when innocents were involved they couldn't afford to deal in those kinds of uncertainties.

“They could have shot him at any point, I couldn't wait,” Dick defended, keeping his tone reasonable and controlled in light of Hood coming unhinged. He didn't exactly think Jason would attack him, but...well, they didn't need any more victims tonight.

“These guys have obviously done this before. They weren't nervous, the kid was cooperating, why would they shoot him?” Red Hood argued. “The risk was low, a hell of a lot lower than it was for _you._ ”

Dick's brows furrowed, struggling to maintain his anger when it felt like Jason was yanking him around emotionally. If this was some new kind of debate tactic, it was a strange one. It almost sounded like Red Hood was angry because Dick had put _himself_ in danger. But that didn't make any sense. They all put themselves in danger every night, Red Hood as much or more than any of them really. Why would it suddenly upset him now that Dick was willing to throw himself into the line of fire?

He shook his head, trying to focus on the argument. “You couldn't know that,” Dick countered. “'Low risk' isn't 'no risk'. And if there is any risk at all, then I have to go in.”

Trust Red Hood to be dramatic, because he threw up his hands in a grandiose gesture of exasperation and shouted, “No! No, you don't!”

As Dick opened his mouth to respond, Hood spoke over him. “Golden Boy Nightwing isn’t invincible no matter how big his ego is.” Red hood jerkily tapped at his own helmet-covered head with his hand shaped like a gun. “Do you think if a bullet hit you between the eyes you'd just magically survive because your heart is pure? _News flash_ —being on the side of the angels sure didn't save me, and it won't save you! If what I've seen tonight is reflective of what you've been doing here in Blüdhaven alone, then I'm fucking astounded that you aren't already in a casket.”

Dick cringed. Bringing up his own death was certainly a low blow, but one Jason used often enough that Dick was mostly accustomed to it. “This is how I've always done things. How _we've_ always done things—”

“No, it isn't!” Red Hood interrupted again, the way his free hand was clawing, he looked as though he was holding back from grabbing and physically shaking Dick. “Do you think Red Robin would have jumped in without a plan? That you wouldn't take Robin to task for doing what you just did? _Bat_ _man_ wouldn't even do this. He probably would have snuck around the back and used a smoke pellet or something.”

All good plans to be sure, but what Red Hood kept ignoring was that there hadn't been _time._ Dick didn't dignify his points by addressing them again, he'd already sufficiently explained his thought process for acting as he had. A civilian had been in imminent danger, so Dick had given the criminals a new target as quickly as possible. End of story, he'd done nothing wrong. _Red Hood_ on the other hand—

“And what about what you've just done, Hood?” Dick asked with a snarl, and gesturing down at the man who was now rocking on the ground with his eyes shut tight, all but ignoring the verbal fight happening around him. “You shot a tied up, unarmed man! He'll probably never use that hand again!”

Dick had hoped his words would provoke some sense of guilt or shame from Red Hood for his actions, but if the other vigilante was feeling anything of the sort it was hidden behind his helmet. His voice lacked anything like concern as he growled, “He _shot_ at you with that hand. He was ready to _kill_ you with that hand. He made his choice,” each statement dropping with the gravity of a pounding gavel.

“Yes he did, but you're not his judge, jury and executioner,” Dick said, suddenly exhausted. Now they were dipping into the tired and worn points of Jason and the family's contention over the very essence of vigilantism. That they kept to these principles was the only reason the police tolerated their presence. He shouldn't even have to mention it, Jason already knew this. “You don't get to dole out medieval punishments like a third-world dictator just because you're angry. ”

Hood huffed. “And who is going to stop me, huh? Batman? We've already come to an agreement. This piece of shit is still breathing. 'The Cardinal Rule' has been upheld.”

Dick bit his lip, clenching his fist so tight he could've sworn you could hear the bones in his fingers creak. Jason wasn't wrong there. Dick hadn't been privy to the details, but Jay had made a deal with Bruce to hold that one line sacred—no deaths. And Dick was thankful for the compromise on his adoptive brother and father's parts that had finally, after years of open warfare between them, brought Jason back to them. In theory he was all for it, but in practice?

Dick looked down at the injured robber—a person just like him or his brother with his own set of circumstances that brought him to this crime—and now his hand was just so much bloody meat, fallen prey to Red Hood's wrath. This didn't feel like justice to Dick, it felt sadistic and cruel.

“Fuck...,” he cursed and rubbed frustratedly at his temples through his domino.

Dick wanted to lay into Jason, tell him point by point why every argument he had to justify himself was wrong, but it probably wouldn't help. And besides, here wasn't the time or place. He could already hear the echoes of sirens drawing near. Even in Blüdhaven people called the police when they heard gunshots and there had certainly been enough of those tonight to warrant attention. They needed privacy for this talk. Somewhere without pained sobs from the robber turned victim, and the fearful eyes of the cashier against the back wall of the gas station, and the incessant barking of neighborhood dogs and blaring alarms of the police, fast approaching. Dick needed to be somewhere he could hear himself _think._

“We'll discuss this later,” Dick promised and he almost winced at the stony tone that had entered his own voice. For a moment he'd sounded like Bruce, and as much as he loved the man like a father, Dick didn't want to be like him. Put a lot of effort into avoiding it, in fact. “We have to get out of here.”

“Your town, you lead the way.” Red Hood's speech was indifferent, and not for the first time Dick hated that red helmet that wouldn't let him see his brother's face. He had enough trouble figuring out what Jason was thinking at any given time without taking away his expressions. At least barefaced it was easy to tell how he was feeling even if Dick often didn't know why.

Briefly it occurred to him that might be some of the point of the thing. Nightwing himself didn't have a helmet to hide behind; his own displeasure was a burning, obvious thing to anyone with eyes to see.

Dick ground his teeth, chewing on his own temper. “It is and I will,” he declared, spitting out the words like a threat.

Shooting off grapple lines just as he spied the flash of red and blue up the lonely street, signaling the arrival of the police, the two vigilantes quickly melded into the shadows of the night. They made their way back to his apartment in silence, Dick leading the way.

At first he payed close attention to Red Hood, unsure if he would follow. When it became clear his brother didn't intend to make a run for it, Dick let the practice of navigating the roofs and streets of Blüdhaven with leaps and swings ease some of the tension from his body.

Where had things gone so wrong? After the stress of the Run-Offs meeting, Jason's anxious demeanor had abated and on patrol he'd even seemed to be having fun at times. Dick himself had felt more secure than he did anywhere but with his Titans. Despite their skill and competence, with Robin and even RR, Dick often found himself looking over his shoulder, worrying they'd be out-muscled or outmaneuvered by a particularly treacherous enemy. And with Batman he felt the strain of Bruce's will that never seemed one hundred percent in line with his own, always controlling and secretive.

But Jason felt like the kind of backup he could trust to follow him laughing into hell and break out the other side alive. Dick leapt into danger without thinking because he knew Jason would be running and gunning right along with him if anything came up.

And he had been, hadn't he? Upon seeing those armed robbers pointing a weapon at the cashier, a kid only a year or two older than Tim, Dick had jumped into action, heedless of the dangers for himself. He lived without safety nets, it's how he'd always conducted himself. Then the gunshots started and there was Red Hood, shooting right back and opening up the way for him, their teamwork as smooth as silk as if they did it every day. Only the barest communication was necessary, they trusted each others' skills.

Or he'd thought they had. Now Dick was just confused.

The half-moon was low over the horizon when they finally hit the street of Dick's apartment, the area quiet and dark with cars a rarity at this time of night. Dick took one last sniff of the salty breeze on the roof of the apartment building next to his own before he quietly toed a few flights down the emergency stair. Flipping to catch the sill of his window, he clung to the wall of the building with one hand and slid his other hand into the space he'd left to push the window open entirely and gain entrance. It was with a sigh of relief that he heaved himself inside with a somersault and touched down on the carpet of his bedroom.

Before the Red Hood could follow him inside in a similar fashion, Dick briefly considered slamming his window closed. Luckily he realized that would be childish before he actually did it. Not to mention hazardous to his window; Dick didn't have much faith that Jason wouldn't punch his way through the glass to get in, possibility of injury be damned. The keys to his motorcycle were inside after all, Jason wouldn't leave those even if he didn't care about his clothes, he loved the damn machine. Dick also preferred to think he wasn't that much of a jerk, though sometimes he thought it might be cathartic to let loose and live up to his nickname.

Once Red Hood was in, Dick shut the window, closed his curtains and flicked on the lights. “Give me a minute to change and I'll make up the couch for you,” Dick told him in a hard monotone. Dick was still mad. He hated that feeling, but he wouldn’t let it go, not about this.

In return Jason just made a grunt of understanding and walked out of his room to give him space.

When his door closed, Dick let his neck roll back and he stared at the ceiling with his shoulders slumped for a long moment before doing anything else. Roughly four hours of patrol wasn't that long for him, but Dick was drained all the same. He found himself sliding off his domino mask and dropping it on his dresser lethargically, undoing the clasps for his boots and gauntlets with slow, lazy movements. Moping around, Shawn would call it. But it felt like a moping kind of evening. Despite his best efforts tonight, someone had gotten hurt. That it wasn't him didn't even matter.

Dick stowed away his eskrima sticks, wingdings and other tools in the false bottom of his sock drawer and pealed off his Nightwing uniform, kicking it at his closet without reservations despite the thing representing a fortune's worth of technology and next generation Kevlar tri-weave mesh. He slumped into an old shirt with a hole in it and a faded graphic he couldn’t even make out anymore and loose workout shorts, then trudged out of his room with a spare pillow under one arm and a few blankets and sheets in the other.

He found Jason standing at the bar with his helmet off, his longish bangs sticking up from being pushed down by the helmet and then mussed up by fidgety fingers upon its removal. His leather jacket had been tossed over the back of one of the stools, his gloves removed and he'd yanked off his shoes but otherwise Jason still wore all of his gear. The stools of the bar were moved out of his way and all three of his guns sat on an old towel spread over the counter. Jason must have brought it with him for some purpose because it wasn't Dick's. As he watched, Jason pulled gun cleaning tools from the backpack he'd left at the apartment while they'd been on patrol.

Dick wrinkled his nose at the noxious scent of gun oil, but cleaning a gun after use was important for upkeep and there wasn't anywhere else for Jay to do it so he didn't complain about the smell. Or about anything, really. Not even the big, bleeding elephant in the room. Over the last few years Dick had made his beliefs quite clear regarding the treatment of criminals, and maybe he'd never change Jason's mind but he'd thought his brother at least respected him enough to confine his outlaw justice to his own sphere of work and outside of Dick's turf. If that wasn't the case, then maybe there wasn't anything left to say at all. Not anything worth his effort anyway.

So he just walked passed Jason in silence to dump the pillow and blankets on his couch. Jason spared a glance for him but didn't speak even as Dick made his way into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl, the gallon of milk from his fridge, and a box of Chocolate Crunchios.

“You hungry?” he asked Jason. He'd poured himself some cereal and milk in the bowl and fished around in his utensil drawer for a clean spoon. Of course there weren't any, so Dick ended up pulling a dirty spoon from his sink and splashing it under the faucet, not as worried about sanitation as he probably should be.

“For that sugary candy you call cereal? No thanks,” Jason grumbled. He was glaring at the late night snack with obvious disdain as Dick shoved a spoon full of Crunchios in his mouth and wiped his chin when milk dribbled from his lips.

Dick flashed him a look of horror. Someone who didn't like Chocolate Crunchios? Blasphemy. Was Jay a health freak or something? Had he always been that way?

“I've got granola bars, or protein bars too,” Dick offered, though he didn't know why he was bothering. Obviously Jason just had something against tasty food alongside his many other failings as a human being.

Jason raised a contemptuous brow and scoffed. “Anything _not_ covered in chocolate?”

Dick frowned. As far as he was concerned the ideal foods were those covered in chocolate, but he was dimly aware it wasn't a view shared by everyone. Apparently he'd identified such a rare species in his own adoptive brother. What a sad day this was.

Considering the options he could provide, the pickings were slim. His cupboard was pretty barren, except for his cereal, said snack bars, and some boxes of minute rice, pasta and oatmeal. His fridge was in an equally sorry state, the contents of which included the rest of his gallon of milk, a partial six-pack of root-beer, a bottle of mustard and a huge bag of oranges from Juan Andrés's grandmother's overly productive tree. Nothing else.

Hm, Dick should probably do something about this at some point.

“Want an orange?” he hazarded, and felt almost relieved when Jason made a grunt of affirmation. At least he'd eat natural sugar, that was something. Maybe.

Dick left the fruit sitting next to the towel he was cleaning his guns on. After eying the still full bag in his fridge, Dick added another next to it. He had a _lot_ of oranges to eat.

Dick ate his cereal watching Jason meticulously clean his guns, his intense concentration leading him to think his brother found the action therapeutic. As he crunched away, Dick noticed that at some point Jason had taken the magazine from the weapon he'd confiscated and put it and the rest of the pistol in a big ziplock bag and left it on the counter nearby. Just like Dick himself did with evidence, he'd labeled it with the date, approximate time, the description 'gas station robbery/hostage attempt' and the location of the incident.

He eyed the weapon with dread. Dick would have to get that to Svoboda sometime this week. Preferably by breaking into her office and leaving it on her desk when she wasn't there. Handing it over in person would be the perfect time for her to ream Nightwing out about the incident and he wanted to postpone that for as long as possible.

As he was fishing the last pieces of cereal from his milk, Dick yawned hugely. He sort of wanted another bowl of Crunchios, but then again he was getting drowsy and it was after two in the morning. He should probably just go to bed; cereal would still be there for him in the morning.

It was after Dick had slurped up the remaining milk and deposited his bowl and spoon in the sink that he noticed Jason was chewing on the inside of his cheek with his brows furrowed, staring at his now clean guns as if not really seeing them. In the washed-out light from the insets in Dick's kitchen his brother looked pale and wan. One of his hands was nervously picking at the fraying threads of the old towel the weapons were resting on and had deep grooves in his callouses from stabbing himself with his thumbnail.

Dick was momentarily fixated on those angry red grooves, wondering why Jason was looking so anxious all of a sudden, when his brother released a harsh breath of decision and looked up, catching his eyes.

Jason swallowed visibly. “Hey,” he croaked, throat sounding constricted.

Dick narrowed his eyes suspiciously, not quite sure what was going on. “Yes?”

“About the thing earlier...” Jason trailed off vaguely. Dick snapped to attention, immediately realizing what this must be about. Jay wanted to get back to the argument. Well, Dick wasn't in the mood anymore, he was just tired.

“I'm not sure if I can 'adult' enough to argue with you right now without starting a fight,” Dick responded honestly, his expression carefully blank.

Jason snuffed and quirked one side of his mouth in bitter amusement. “You're not talking in grunts and monosyllables, so you're already more adult than Bruce is when he's pissed.”

“Sadly, the bar for emotional intelligence is pretty damn low in this family,” Dick agreed. At the word 'family' Jason's mouth did a weird thing and he stabbed his right thumbnail painfully into the side of one finger, adding another dark mark there along with the others.

“Ain't that the fuckin' truth,” Jason growled, his street accent bleeding through. He rubbed the back of his neck, absently smearing gun oil there and mumbled a broken, “Look, I uh...shouldn't have done that. Shot the guy like that. I'm sorry.”

Dick blinked, the words taking a moment to process. This was...a surprising development, to say the least. He'd expected Jason to dig his heels in on the matter, maybe even use the fight to break off their support group plans—not that Dick would _let_ him. Volunteering an apology himself and so soon hadn't been on his radar at all. Apparently he'd been working up to it while cleaning his guns.

For an instant Dick was tempted to be the stubborn one for once. He always felt like he had to be the responsible individual in most of his interactions and after a while it became exhausting. Just once Dick would like to be the one to raise hell and be petty, but he wanted to _encourage_ this kind of behavior in Jason, not discourage it. Rejecting his apology wouldn't teach him anything. If Jason Todd, the poster boy for fury-fueled grudge-holding could use his words and admit he'd done wrong, then Dick didn't have any excuses.

Still, he could let Jason squirm a bit before he gave in.

Dick sighed and crossed his arms, pinning Jason with an admonishing stare as he drawled, “You should really be saying sorry to the _man you shot_ , not to me.”

Jason rolled his eyes and spat, “I don't give a shit about that guy, he deserved what he got and more, I've got nothing to say to that scumbag.” Then he gave a heavy sigh, dropping his eyes to the counter sheepishly as he admitted, “But...I knew you wouldn't like me shooting him and I did it anyway, so I'm apologizing to you.”

Dick made a noncommittal hum and pursed his lips. He supposed that was fair. Expecting Jason to feel bad about shooting a man who'd held a teenager at gunpoint was probably asking too much. If Jason hadn't shot the gunman right in front of him after the man had already stood down and been tied up, then Dick probably wouldn’t even mind it. But once a criminal had been taken down on his watch they became Nightwing's responsibility and he took that custody very seriously. The state the police found these perps in reflected on him personally and would impact his relationship with law enforcement going forward. Roughing up someone to encourage cooperation was sometimes a necessity when lives were at stake, but he wouldn’t allow harm or injury as a form of retribution, and neither would the cops.

“If you knew I'd be angry, then why did you do it?” Dick asked, partly to draw out the conversation before he inevitably gave in and forgave him, and partly out of genuine curiosity. Was Jason just trying to hurt him? Had something triggered him? This would be useful information, and information was a bat's bread and butter.

Now Jay frowned at him, regarding Dick with frustration as he explained, “Because you're treating Red Hood like a normal vigilante in front of people. Saying I won't kill them, making it look like I have the same rules as you guys do—I can't have that. I _really_ can't fucking have that, it's gonna get me killed. The only reason I can get away with these dumb rules I've been saddled me with is if trash like that robber _believe_ I'll kill them if they don't give me a reason not to.”

Dick frowned. If it was the truth, then it probably wasn't all of it. It had come too easy, his instincts told him Jason had a deeper reason for his actions. Still, he'd concede that Jason had a point about Red Hood's vigilante status. Dick had been treating Red Hood like he would Flash or Red Robin: business as normal, just with a pal. But with Jason it couldn't quite be that way. If Nightwing's reputation with the police mattered, then Red Hood's with other criminals mattered, too.

“If this patrol-thing is going to work at all, then you have to let the criminals believe I'll kill them,” Jason said as Dick listened thoughtfully. “Play it up, even. I know it's counterintuitive, but the more willing to hurt people I seem, the less I _actually_ have to hurt people, because they won't call my bluff.”

Dick chewed on his lip, considering this new amendment to their partnership. Play up his viciousness, huh? As long as it was just acting then he didn't foresee any problems with it. Dick Grayson was raised in the circus, so he knew how to put on a show. Nightwing's rep with the police might take a hit, but then people getting maimed and/or murdered like tonight would tank it a heck of a lot faster. And what was the point of being a vigilante if you couldn't do things the cops wouldn't, such as work with the Red Hood? If Dick wasn't willing to do that, then there was no point engaging in this tiresome, illegal work. He might as well become an officer for real and draw an honest paycheck with union rights. Ha, not likely.

Dick was the one who'd wanted this, who had invited Jason to Blüdhaven. He'd been more naive than he realized when he'd done it, but then again that wasn't something to be ashamed of. He was proud of it, really. Dick had been burned more than once, even just recently with Raptor, but so long as he could still believe in the inherent goodness of humanity, then he could hold his head high. So he'd given his brother a rope that was almost long enough to hang himself from—yeah, that was on him. But Dick was also sure if he'd come out of the gate with too many rules, then Jason would have bailed back at the sports bar and never come to begin with. The rest of the day had been such a win that Dick was willing to give Jason some leeway.

He looked up at his ceiling with a hopeful clenching in his heart. Jason was different from how he was even a year ago, actually _talking_ to him about problems, instead of running off in a tiff, apologizing on his own without fighting it tooth and nail...he might not be perfect yet, but it was something. More than something. And if there was anything Dick had learned from the Run-Off's it was that change was hard and if you could just manage to be 'good enough' day in and day out, then it eventually added up to something better.

All of the tension that had built up in Dick's shoulders since that gunshot finally eased from his body and Dick was able to give Jason a real smile. Jay had actually managed to be adult enough for both of them, for once. That was kind of nice.

“Alright,” Dick agreed, letting his tone gentle. “If you can stick to my rules then I can do that much. Apology accepted.”

Jason expression was suddenly awash with desperate relief. The thought that Dick's opinion actually mattered to him left the vigilante with warm fuzzies inside. Jason had been pretending not to care, but he'd been terrified Dick wouldn't forgive him. It was frankly adorable. Dick was captured by the urge to ruffle Jason's hair like he would Tim's or Damian's, but he also liked having two hands, so he decided against trying.

“Good. Thanks,” Jason managed to say, his voice winded like he'd been holding his breath.

Dick ran a hand through his own hair feeling slightly embarrassed as he admitted, “Besides, this is might be my fault too, in some ways.”

Jason's eyes narrowed at him and with an indignant huff he said, “Get over yourself, Goldie. _E_ _verything_ isn't your damn fault. I knew what I was doing, what you expected from me. I own my mistakes. You can't take them away from me just because you've got a bleeding heart for the world.”

Dick gave him a small smile. “Not for the world, just for the people I care about.”

Jason grumbled under his breath, fidgeting awkwardly at this confirmation that his brother gave a damn about him. Not for the first time Dick wondered why he seemed to find any kind of affection on _anyone's_ part, much less Dick's or the rest of the family's, to be so strange.

“And I'm not taking _all_ the blame,” Dick corrected Jason. “Most of it I rest squarely on you, but I should have anticipated there might be some issues with Nightwing and Red Hood working together. It's just that it never seems to come up when you've partnered with the family before, so it didn't occur to me there would be any problems now.”

Jason rolled his eyes, looking to be on firmer ground now that the subject had moved on from something mushy. “Believe it or not, but little Timmy doesn't actually care as much as you do about the state I leave the perps in as long as they can confess their crimes to the police,” Jason said and his expression shifted into a mixture of fondness and begrudging respect that left Dick feeling both endeared and slightly jealous. “If I start to go overboard he just gives me annoying, withering looks. Also, he doesn't leave anything to me if he can help it, so I hardly get the chance to act out. The kid's a bit of a control freak, if you didn't notice.”

Dick smirked. Control freak? Tim? The phrase never fit anyone so well. “Oh, I noticed.” Now that Damian had taken over leadership of the Teen Titans, Dick halfway suspected B of assigning Tim as Kate's second at the Belfry mostly to keep Tim from micromanaging Batman himself. Not that he wasn't also perfect for the job, but it probably seemed like hitting two Robins with one batarang to him.

 _Withering looks, though_ , Dick considered skeptically. Those actually worked to keep the Red Hood in line? Well, maybe from Tim they would; Jason seemed to have a bit of a guilty spot for him. And Red Robin might be smaller and younger than Red Hood, but he was no pushover in his own right. Dick wasn't sure he could pull off 'withering' even if he tried, though. It would probably just make him feel bad and not accomplish anything. Well so much for that idea.

“And since we're talking about partners,” Jason began ominously and the way he crossed his arms over his chest and glared across the bar at Dick made him think whatever his brother was about to discuss had been eating at him all night. “I don't know what kind of crap you pull with little D or your Titans buddies, or if you're just treating me like I'm not even there or what, but this jumping in head-first without a word shit? Not cool.”

Dick's brows knit together, confused. Treating him like he wasn't there? What was Jason talking about? “I'm not sure I know what you mean,” he answered carefully.

Jason snorted at his claim of ignorance. “The mugger and the carjacker were small stuff, so I get that, but at that gas station? You didn't stop to discuss a plan with me or anything,” he explained, voice building with anger. “You didn't even sneak around on your own. You just hauled ass toward the crooks like a suicidal idiot.”

Oh, this again? Dick knew he and Jason didn't work exactly the same way, but he knew that Jay was perfectly capable of 'winging it', as it were. And if the stories Roy told him were any indication, then despite all of Jason's very meticulous planning, most situations he found himself in tended to break down at some point, meaning he had plenty of practice doing so. Dick wasn't sure where this need for direction of his was coming from, to be honest. And by how difficult Jay was finding it to clarify his meaning, he wasn't sure if _Jason_ even knew.

“As I told you earlier, there wasn't time for any of that.” Dick explained, trying to keep the frustration he felt from his voice. “I had to change the situation quickly. The robbers might have decided at any moment that they couldn't afford loose ends, or the cashier wasn't going fast enough for them. I can't know what these people are thinking or what will trigger them, I've seen situations escalate out of hand over seemingly nothing at all.” And here was the real defense: “Besides, I didn't just jump in without a plan. The plan was to capture their attention from the civilian and then subdue them. And I might not have spelled out what I was going to do, but I _did_ tell you to back me up.”

Jason just looked baffled. “And _how_ was I supposed to know what the hell kind of backup you wanted?” he demanded.

Dick could only shake his head. “What do you mean, 'how'? You just did, it was perfect. The way you gave me cover fire to get in? Exactly what I needed. And when I went after the robbers, you checked on the civilian and notified me he was missing. Again, perfect.” It was like clockwork, really. They made a great team. “We both know what we're doing, you can trust that.”

“ _I_ didn't know what we were doing,” Jason said with wide eyes, sounding lost. He seemed to be struggling to communicate his thoughts. “You keep forgetting I don't do things like you do-gooders do. The Outlaws aren't...reactionary, most of the time. Not when I can help it, anyway. I've got targets, I'm not just beating down random thugs unless they get in my way. I like to discuss things beforehand.”

“I _know_ you get into all kinds of tangles you didn't plan on with your team. You handle those fine,” Dick reminded him.

“That's different. I'm the one in charge, so when stuff goes wrong everyone's looking to me to figure it out for them. No one is stepping on anyone's toes because they're all following my orders. I was expecting you to tell me what you need, and you just throw yourself at a guy with a gun and don't tell me anything. I didn't know what the hell you wanted me to do, whether I was going to mess up your master plan by interfering or you'd get shot right in front of me if I didn't do something.”

It finally clicked in Dick's brain. “Oh! You're used to either being the boss or having someone boss you around, and then I didn't seem to let either happen so you were already freaked out a little bit. And then it looked like I might get shot and you _really_ freaked out. Ah, Jay, that's so sweet, I knew you cared!” he teased gleefully.

Jason's ears reddened in embarrassment and Dick grinned when his brother conscientiously tried to hide a spreading blush behind his large hands. It was like he was fifteen all over again, freaking precious. Bruce, Alfred and Tim would be so jealous when he described this moment to them. Damian probably wouldn't care, but Dick cared enough for both of them.

“Shut the fuck up,” came a muffled command, but Dick's smile just widened further. “It's just...the shit you pulled tonight fucking scared me. It's like you didn't even care if you got hurt. I wanted to put the fear of God into that fucker who'd pointed a gun at you, because you sure as hell weren't going to!”

“Jay, I'm not going to say I wouldn't have done something similar if you hadn't been there,” Dick said, “but I could do what I did without having to think about it or plan because I knew you _were_ there. Do you even know what having Red Hood as backup is like? Like having a mouthy easy-button. Blüdhaven is going to start watching itself on Friday nights, no idiots are going to be walking outside when Nightwing _and_ Red Hood are on the streets.”

Jason seemed to decide the best way to deal with his embarrassment was to pretend the skin of his cheeks weren't glowing red against his freckles and to coil his hands into the old towel with his field-stripped guns still lying out on them. “So...I did alright?” he asked, not managing to sound casual at all. “Aside from the...the thing at the end.”

Did Jason have self-esteem issues? Dick found it strange that he even felt the need for this kind of reassurance, but if that's what his brother needed to feel secure then he'd do it. “Of course. I mean, even the way you talked down the guy with the hostage was cool. Nightwing couldn't make that kind of bluff.” He hadn't seen all of it, of course. It had taken Dick a minute to sneak onto the roof, but by the time he'd gotten there the robber holding the kid hostage looked ready to piss himself, and Red Hood hadn't even done anything to him but mouth off. Perps just weren't afraid of Nightwing, for some reason. Not until he broke a few of their arms, anyway.

At Dick's confession Jason smirked, looking more confident and vaguely proud of himself. He made a contented, thankful sort of sound and turned back to his work on his weapons, reassembling them and stowing them carefully away. Dick watched his brother wipe the oil still on his fingers on his towel and toss it into his pack with his other gear. He didn't seem to realize he had some on his neck and now his face as well, and Dick didn't plan on telling him. With the counter cleaned off, Jason noticed the oranges Dick had left by his workspace and picked one up, digging a nail into the rind to get a peel started. The fragrant scent of citrus chased away the smell of oil.

“I'm glad we talked, Jay,” Dick said with a smile. “I like this way better than shouting or avoiding each other or beating each other up.”

Depositing a single, long spiral of orange rind into a pile on his counter top, Jason started segmenting the orange and made an amused sound. “Not a fan of the shouting myself, but beating you up has its upsides.”

Dick flashed him an amused smirk. “You couldn't if you tried.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason raised a brow, clearly goading him. “Wrestle ya to see who gets the shower first.”

Raising his arms over his head, Dick strained his muscles in a pleasant stretch and yawned. As fun as it would be to spar with Jason without the threat of lethal injury, it was not going to happen tonight. “You can have it,” he conceded readily. “I'm going to bed. I'll take one in the morning. Just close the bedroom door when you're done. The light from the coffeemaker in the kitchen shines directly in my eyeballs when it's open.”

Jason frowned and finished chewing what looked like half the orange stuffed in one mouthful before he swallowed and shook his head with disdain. “Going to bed all sweaty from patrol? You're so disgusting. It makes no sense how someone so damn nasty gets so much tail.”

Dick almost choked. Oh God was this a perfect opening for teasing. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity. “Someone sounds jealous,” Dick leered with the biggest grin of the night. “Need some dating pointers Little Wing? Big bro has you covered.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “ _Pfft_. 'How to pick up ladies, a guide by Dick Grayson'. Step one, be Dick Grayson. Step two, approach female. Step three, profit.”

Dick laughed. “I'm not saying it's a necessity, but being me definitely doesn't hurt,” he boasted. Dick was very secure in his physical attractiveness. Even so, that Jason seemed to think women just fell at his feet to bed him wasn't actually true, but extremely flattering nonetheless.

Having finished the first of the oranges in record time, Jay had moved onto the second and wrinkled his nose, staring at Dick as if he were covered in slime. “If it means becoming a bag of human filth like you then that's a hard pass.”

“ _Yeesh._ ” Dick cringed, suddenly feeling disgusting. Damn was Jay brutal when he was messing with you. And seriously, why did Jason and Shawn always act like Dick never did anything mannerly or hygienic? It was like their go-to insult for him. Aside from the selfie-thing.“Okay now you're making me think I should take a shower,” Dick confessed.

Jason walked around the bar to grab Dick's hand and gift him his collection of orange peels. Dick stared at them dumbly, thinking, _Ew, I don't want these,_ when Jason smirked and said, “No take-backs. I get it first.”

 


	6. Don't Let Me Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Juan-Andrés is bored and makes an unfortunate offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I thought it would, but then again it ended up being a much longer chapter than I thought it would, so...hopefully you enjoy it. Also, there are so many instances of Juan-Andrés' name in this chapter that I have the Libre Office code for an accented 'e' memorized. (It's Alt+0233.)

When your boss—who is also your uncle, and the guy who took you in when you got out of jail and the rest of your family didn't want anything to do with you—said, “Run this down to Ted's place in Gotham for me, _chavo_ _,_ ” then you did it, even if Gotham was the very last place you wanted to be. You took one of the old junkers your uncle kept saying he wanted to fix up when he got the chance, you shoved the black powder-coated gas tank for an Indian Cruiser in the front seat with a bunch of bubble wrap to keep it from getting knocked around, and you drove it to Ted's to work his magic.

The requested 'magic' was an airbrushed tiger or something like that, and even though Juan-Andrés' uncle picked up shop and moved to Blüdhaven from Gotham over ten years ago, he still only trusted Ted for portraits and fancy artwork when it came to custom jobs on cars or bikes. Not that they got a lot of that stuff, mostly it's just wheel-alignments and dented fenders, the normal crap, but the normal crap paid the bills so Juan-Andrés couldn't complain. Still, every time he saw someone bring in an ugly-ass bike his fingers just itched to trick it out. It was too bad really, that Uncle Santino's place was just a normal mechanics shop for the most part. Juan-Andrés had never thought of himself as creative but bikes just got all his juices flowing in more ways than one.

So after his lunch break, he'd braved the coastal highway up to Gotham, promptly got stuck in the traffic that seemed to clog up Gotham freeways twenty-four-seven and finally rolled into Ted's at about three in the afternoon to drop off the delivery. It was just in time to hit the godawful commuter traffic on the way back. Fantastic.

Juan-Andrés leaned against the pealing paint of a barely street worthy '67 Camaro in front of Ted's shop on a corner, just outside the industrial district of Gotham. The thing would probably be cool if his uncle ever gave it some paint and new upholstery and a tune up, but for now it was something between faded-cream and rusted out metal and he was absolutely dreading being stuck in the damn thing for another two hours straight. The radio didn't work, it didn't have air conditioning, and he'd driven lawnmowers that shifted gears smoother. Half the time, second gear wasn't even there. He'd have been more comfortable taking his bike, but his uncle was paranoid about transporting parts by motorcycle. Oh, the things you do for family.

Stalling, Juan-Andrés pulled out his phone and fired off a text to his uncle, informing him the gas tank had made it to Ted's and he was on his way home. He immediately got a text back that he could have the rest of the day off and didn't have to rush home, with the strong suggestion to stay and visit his parents.

Yeah, no. Thanks but no thanks _Tio,_ that wasn't going to happen. Like a limb with gangrene, his parents treated Juan Andrés like something you had to excise to protect the rest of the body. As far as they were concerned, they'd given him everything in life and he'd spat on it to run drugs for the cartels and race the streets.

And yeah, he'd been a young, dumb, selfish brat then, but they didn't want to see him for who he was now. The dark deeds of his youth had tainted him forever in their eyes. They treated his uncle the same way because he'd been a bit wild too once. Juan-Andrés didn't see why he held such optimism that they'd forgive a son after a few years when his father hadn't forgiven his brother after over twenty.

Visiting his parents was out. Visiting his old gang buddies was out, they were just one big temptation and just didn't get that he was trying to stay clean and legal. Getting back on the road was about as appealing as a dip in the Gotham river in December, and was a waste of time and gas besides. If he just waited a couple hours for the traffic to die off, he'd get back home in a quarter of the time. But absolutely worst of all about that option, it was _boring._ Boredom was a death-sentence for him, it was the catalyst for all of his worst habits. All the bad things he'd ever done, he did in search of excitement to break the monotony of everyday life that had sometimes felt like it was slowly eating him alive.

What to do until then though, that was the question. He didn't have much of an answer. If he was the kind of guy who could entertain himself with something quiet like a book or a movie, then his life would have taken a very different path. Everything that sprang to mind was stuff he knew would go south because his personal tendency was to push the limits and not stay in the safe little boxes everyone else did. If there was a way to fuck something up then he'd find it, he had that much faith in his ingenuity and that little in his own willpower.

He groaned, idly watching a garbage can outside of an Italian restaurant with a cloud of seagulls picking at it for lack of anything better to look at. It was time to seek a second opinion, he decided. When in doubt, in temptation, in boredom, whatever, he called Randy, his sponsor.

Juan-Andrés hadn't been all that keen on the cowboy when he first met the man—there'd been some lingering machismo from gang life that made accepting a gay man with more muscles than him as a friend a tough pill to swallow—but out of all the Run-Offs the two of them understood having irreconcilable problems with family. The bond hadn't been immediate, but after a year of group meetings and late night calls because he was thinking of doing something stupid and couldn't talk himself out of it on his own, there's had become a strong friendship. Now the man was probably his best friend and he could honestly say he'd been an idiot to let Randy's sexuality freak him out in the beginning.

Juan-Andrés sighed and pulled his phone back out, dialing Randy's number from muscle memory. He could sit in the car for this, but he'd been sitting for hours. He'd rather stand, even if the air outside tasted like gasoline and worse things drifting in from ACE Chemicals.

Three rings and Randy picked up, addressing him in his familiar Texan accent. “Juan-Andrés, how's it goin', Hoss? What do ya need?”

“Nothing, just bored. I had to take a gas tank down to Gotham for my uncle and now I'm stuck here for a few hours,” he explained.

“Sound's rough. Traffic at this time o' day in Gotham is a right nightmare,” Randy said with genuine feeling.

“Yeah, it's not worth driving in,” he agreed. “So I'm just sitting here in a parking lot doing a whole lot of nothing.”

A warning crept into Randy's tone. “You ain't thinkin' about racing or nuttin', are ya?”

Juan-Andrés gave a bitter laugh. Randy knew him too well. “I'm always thinking about racing, Randy. Right now the logistics would be tough to figure out, though. All I've got is my uncle's old Camaro, I'd be a laughing stock in this thing.” That got him to thinking, though. There were all these unattended vehicles in this convenient parking lot, most of them owned by the guys in Ted's shop, so they were pretty badass looking and souped up. One of those could work. And some of them were refurbished classics, which were stupid-easy to hot-wire, not like the modern stuff.

He rubbed the scruff of his goatee, trying to decide how plausible the idea was to pull off. “Now, if I could steal something else, though—” he murmured to himself.

“I'm gonna stop ya right there,” Randy hastily interjected. “Don't even be thinkin' it. Let's just figure somethin' else out for ya to do.”

Juan-Andrés found himself releasing a relieved sort of breath. Oh good, he hadn't actually wanted to go back to jail. He found it shameful as an adult to make Randy essentially babysit or entertain him like a brat, but he was thankful the man didn't seem to mind most of the time. If Randy could distract him with conversation at the very least that was usually enough to keep Juan-Andrés from doing something dumb for a few hours. The trouble came when he wasn't available, such as when he had to go to work at The Saddle. Sometimes Juan-Andrés called Giz if he was desperate, but listening to his nerdy rambles tended to make him zone out worse and Grimm worked nights, so it was tough to catch him.

So thank God for Randy. Seriously.

He felt bad putting all this pressure on the guy though, so Juan-Andrés tried his best to think up things himself if he could, but today the only contribution he had was, “Santino wants me to visit my family, but there is no way I'm doing that.”

“I hear ya there, bronco,” he heard Randy make a sympathetic tut through the phone. “But ya know who _else_ is in Gotham...” Randy trailed off pointedly.

Juan-Andrés' face scrunched up in confusion. Was he supposed to know who Randy was talking about? Was there a band or celebrity visiting the city today or something? Randy would know that kind of thing, he had a few country music bands that he passionately followed and his guilty pleasure was celebrity gossip. “Uh...no, who?”

Randy's next words dropped like a bomb: “Dick's brother. Red Hood.”

Juan-Andrés opened his mouth. Closed it again. His brain just managed to skip along connecting dots at the best of times but at those words it had ground to a screeching halt. “You're not saying what I think you're saying, are you?” he finally answered.

“Maybe so, maybe no,” was the all-too-innocent reply. “It's just that you _are_ his sponsor. And he _is_ there. And you aren't doin' nuttin' right now but whinin' to me, so ya might as well see if he wants to hang out, or whatever it is people like the Red Hood do.”

Juan-Andrés groaned and slumped against the hood of the ancient Camaro until he was practically laying on the thing. It nearly burned the back of his arms, the metal was so hot from the early-summer sun. “I don't know if I _want_ to know what people like the Red Hood do.” He was pretty sure it involved blood. Lots of blood.

“He seemed normal 'nough at group,” Randy countered.

Juan-Andrés let out a nervous laugh. Clearly Randy hadn't been paying attention on Friday. “He confessed to almost killing Batman with a car bomb,” he reminded his friend. “And then on the news the next morning, I heard he shot some dude's hand off or something.”

“Dick says he apologized fer that,” Randy informed him, but by his tone he accepted that excuse about as well as Juan-Andrés did.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, well as long as he _apologized_...”

An annoyed sigh carried across the line and Randy grumbled, “I didn't realize the guy they used to call the 'Thrill Devil' was this much of a pussy.”

Juan-Andrés frowned up at the sky, eyes half-lidded with irritation. “ _Really_ , Randy? I thought we were friends.” Calling him a pussy was basically a surefire way to make him do anything and Randy damn well knew it. It was like pulling the trigger of a gun, you couldn't do it lightly.

“Just sayin',” Randy replied, unashamed by his ruthless use of Juan-Andrés' weakness. “Yer the one who'd do any dumb stunt known to man on a bike fer a measly buck, but ya can't even ask the Red Hood to hang out as his sponsor? 'S a bit ridiculous, Hoss.”

Yeah, well getting murdered wasn't his idea of an adrenaline kick. Driving fast machines off of haphazardly built jumps, yes. Lighting crap on fire, absolutely. Beating a punk who disrespected his gang with an empty bottle of _Modelo_ , sure. That sort of thing gave him control, it got his heart pumping and focused his brain. He'd come to realize with the Run-Offs that he'd been living with undiagnosed ADD since childhood and part of his inability to make his mind focus on the schoolwork his parents wanted him to was chronic under-stimulation. He just wasn't balanced right, he couldn't hone in on anything unless it was life or death and his mind was prone to wandering.

Calling the Red Hood? It might be life or death, but sure as heck wouldn’t be putting him in control. That wasn't thrills, that was stress. That was the wrong kind of taking his life in his hands and he still didn't know what possessed him to tell Shawn he'd be a sponsor. All Juan-Andrés could think was that he'd been so touched with being given responsibility that he'd accepted without thinking. All of his worst decisions were made when he wasn't thinking. He should have learned by now, but one of his many faults was that he was a slow learner.

Because clearly jail time and group meetings had taught him nothing when it came to ignoring goads. No way in _hell_ was Juan-Andrés letting anyone call him a pussy. Not even Randy.

“Fine, I'll call him,” he groaned to the cowboy. “He's probably busy with crime lord stuff, though.” Hopefully. He could pray, at least.

“All ya can do is ask,” was Randy's sage response. “I gotta get ready fer work, tell me how it goes later, yeah?”

Assuming he lived through the experience. “Okay. Thanks man. See you at The Saddle tomorrow night?”

“I'll be savin' ya a seat at the bar with Giz and Dick. Have fun with the Red Hood.”

Have ' _fun_ _'_ with the Red Hood? Juan-Andrés just did not have anything to say to that. This was Randy getting back at him for teasing the guy about men all those times, wasn't it? God dammit.

“Eh. Bye,” he mumbled, and ended the call before the cowboy could come up with any more crap Juan-Andrés really didn't want to do and then accuse him of being a pussy for not wanting to do it.

Immediately after hanging up, Juan-Andrés scrolled through his contacts to the one that he'd typed in as _R.H._ , and composed a text before he could lose his nerve. He read over the message five times before managing to make himself click 'send'.

Juan-Andrés [3:23]: _This is J.A. from the Run-Offs group. In Gotham for work. Now I'm stuck here and bored for a few hours. If you're not busy want to do something?_

He peeled himself up from laying on the hood of the junker to actually sit, rhythmically tapping his heel against the rusty wheel hub with unspent energy, and watched his phone impatiently for a reply. Would he even get one? Would the Red Hood remember him? Maybe he should have spelled his name out, but looking through symbols for the hyphen was a pain. At least with smart phone keyboards adding the accent to the 'e' was as easy as holding his finger over it until the options popped up, but looking for other punctuation didn't feel worth the effort.

Sometimes it annoyed him that he had such an obnoxiously Hispanic name because his parents hadn't even spoken his mother language much at home, so he'd never learned more than a random smattering of words from other family. His grandmother barely spoke English and his uncle was always sprinkling in Spanish, so he could understand it alright, but speaking it himself was beyond him mostly. Juan-Andrés had actually _failed_ Spanish class in high school. It was just sad, really.

It was as he was watching Seagulls scuttle out of the way of cars in the street—unlike Blüdhaven seagulls, who were so used to people actually stopping for them, instead of heartlessly plowing straight into them like Gothamites would, that they could and did stop traffic for hours by refusing to get out of the way—that a reply actually came.

R.H. [3:25]: _Like what?_

Juan-Andrés eyed the text warily. He was half-hoping for no return text, even if it would set him back to square-one at figuring out something legal to do, but no such luck. Come to think of it, associating with the Red Hood was probably illegal in some capacity. Randy wouldn't accept that though, he'd just say Juan-Andrés was doubly a pussy for being too chickenshit to do his sponsorly duty and then making excuses about it.

He typed back:

Juan-Andrés [3:25]: _Dunno. Whatever you want._

As long as it didn't involve murder, anyway. Watching angry Gothamites trying to swerve into seagulls was only entertaining for so long, he was getting desperate for something to do. He had to stop himself from scraping his nail at the lifted edge of the old paint the car was flaking off like an old snake skin.

When his phone buzzed with another message, he looked at it with a gut-churning mixture of eagerness and dread.

R.H. [3:26]: _You are going to regret those words._

Juan-Andrés blinked at the text on his phone screen and could only think, _Oh. Shit._

The address the Red Hood texted him after that was on Park Row, also known as Crime Alley to anyone with even a vague familiarity with Gotham. This location was so stupidly appropriate that he almost laughed at it.

 _Of course,_ Red Hood would be in Crime Alley, why would he expect anything different? It was only the most notorious neighborhood in the entire city for sin of all kinds. There wasn't a man, woman or child in the place who wasn't stealing, dealing, scamming, on the take, or running something illegal in their basement. Even in his gang days, Juan-Andrés avoided Park Row. The mobsters and rogues really didn't like uppity street punks getting in the way of their business, and tended to express their displeasure lethally. The place was a no-go zone for anyone with even the most basic of survival instincts.

Survival instincts which, let's be honest, Juan-Andrés ignored all the time.

So twenty minutes later Juan-Andrés pulled up in front of a creepy old Victorian that had somehow managed not to be torn down to build an apartment building. It was the kind of house that would have a ballroom, a butler's pantry, a separate staircase for servants to use and a number of bedrooms that extended into the double-digits. Probably it had also hosted a speakeasy in the forties, been the sight of several murder-suicides and had ghosts up the wazoo. Painted an ugly taupe with white trim on the window and door frames, the rod iron fence around the small plot of land it was on stretched unusually high and had savagely pointed finial tops, as if specifically designed to stab the shit out of anyone who tried to jump it.

Not surprisingly, the curb immediately around the house was abandoned, despite every other piece of real-estate along the street being tightly packed with parked cars. You got really good at parallel parking in Gotham, there was never enough space for your vehicle, which was yet another reason why he loved bikes.

Since he'd been invited, Juan-Andrés took a chance at parking on the curb in front of the building and left the car with no small amount of trepidation. He pretended to himself not to hear the sounds of ambulances and gunshots that were practically white noise in a place like this as he wiped sweat from his forehead. All the buildings crowded together put a stop to the breeze that was usually a constant in the island city, and the trapped humidity and heat from the sun was cloying. Juan-Andrés pulled at the neck of his tee-shirt, trying to get some airflow over his skin as he narrowed his eyes at a faded sign mounted at the entrance, which read _Ma Gunn's School for Wayward Boys._

Huh. Weird place to hang. Juan-Andrés was pretty certain he should turn around, get back into his car and ready himself for bumper to bumper traffic. But the sound of Randy calling him a pussy echoed through his brain so he scowled and swung the gate open, marching up to the entrance.

He'd barely touched his knuckle against the door to knock, before it opened on the biggest woman he'd ever seen who wasn't spliced with Orca DNA.

The statuesque redheaded woman glared down at him, her hourglass figure accentuated by the fact that she was in nothing but a generously-filled sports bra that couldn’t flatten her assets and workout shorts that left her defined abs bare, legs stretching for days to the ground. Juan-Andrés could admit to staring at her massive breasts for longer than was strictly polite, but to be fair they were literally inches from his face and his eye-line just naturally sat there, so it took him a moment to realize what he was doing. Of course none of this contributed to his ability to remember what the Red Hood's civilian name was, but eventually the cogs in his mind managed to spit something coherent out.

“Oh, uh, is...Jason here?” he asked, feeling even dumber than he usually did.

The woman snorted, unimpressed. Crossing her muscular arms, she eyed him like a particularly disgusting kind of pest and said in a dark contralto, “The little one is waiting for you in the back. Don't touch anything on your way there—I will know if you do.”

'Little one'? Right, so this wasn't weird at all.

“Uh...okay,” he answered numbly. At least he hadn't gotten the wrong house. That would have been embarrassing.

The woman stepped aside, her threatening manner reminding him of a surly bouncer at a mob-owned nightclub. Unsure what Randy had gotten him into, Juan-Andrés followed the path the woman pointed down through a long hall, past multiple living spaces that looked like they'd been decorated by someone's dusty grandmother, and past a surprisingly modern kitchen to a door that let out onto a brick porch lined with shrubberies and populated by white wicker outdoor furniture. He could hear someone playing Nine Inch Nails loud enough to be intrusive from an open window on the third floor, but the porch seemed abandoned.

Juan-Andrés was wondering what he was supposed to do when something flew by his face and went _splat_ at his feet. Instead of diving out of the way like he probably should have, he crouched to examine the brick and registered the remains of the projectile as a large glob of black mud with half-decayed leaves sticking out of it. Yuck.

“Hey, don't just stand around like an idiot! I ain't got all day, grab those gloves and get up here already,” a rough voice came out of nowhere, startling him.

He flinched, gaze snapping up to the roof where the guy he'd been introduced to as the Red Hood was perched on the edge like a gargoyle.

As a former punk and convict, it was just instinct for Juan-Andrés to size up any guy he ran into, and it wasn't often someone gave him pause. Though he'd never been into martial arts or anything like that, Juan-Andrés had been on the business end of a beat-down enough times to feel relatively confident in his strength against most people. And when it came down to it, hitting someone with a motorcycle laid out pretty much everybody else.

But even knowing Juan-Andrés was no push over, measuring himself against the Red Hood was a joke. Over six feet and two hundred pounds, if he was to guess, the guy looked like he could give Randy a run for his money in punch-strength, which would have been bad enough. But unlike Randy or any other thug from the street, Red Hood's movement was honed, aura dangerous in only the way someone with serious training ever was, and his jumpy demeanor, like he could snap and go psycho at any moment, really freaked Juan-Andrés out. He also suspected the one who'd be laid out from trying to run him over with a bike was Juan-Andrés himself.

Today, the man was still a big dude who could crush his face with a single punch, but where before the guy had been in combat boots and a leather jacket—a look Juan-Andrés liked to think of as mercenary-chic—here Red Hood was in faded holey jeans, a red tank-top, tennis shoes and work gloves.

So...like a normal guy doing chores. Which was surreal to think about the Red Hood doing, but here was the evidence right in front of him that the man was human and probably didn't do the gun-toting maniac thing twenty-four-seven. He was bent over the building's gutters, frowning while using one hand to stabilize himself and pointing with the other at the wicker table where Juan-Andrés noticed a pair of hide gloves identical to his own was lying.

Since Juan Andrés wasn't feeling suicidal, he picked up the indicated pair of work gloves and slipped them on, seriously confused. “What are you doing up there?” he called, struggling to be loud enough over the music. Questioning the Red Hood was probably a dumb idea, but he was madly curious. Did he just like sitting on roofs? Actually, he was a Gotham sort-of vigilante, so he probably did.

The man scooped out a nest of dry leaves from the gutter he was laboring over and tossed it into the bushes below. “What's it look like I'm fucking doing? I'm cleaning the gutters,” he snapped.

Okay, he could see that now. Made sense. “Yeah, _why_ though?” Juan-Andrés called back.

Red Hood gave a gusty sigh, using a plastic spade to diligently scrape out the gutter trough and fling the mess to the ground over and over with a _plop_ as he explained. “It's supposed to rain tonight and no one has touched these things in twenty years cuz Faye is so damn cheap.” _Plop._ “Last week the basement almost flooded from the runoff though, so it's gotta get done.” _Plop._ “I've already found three drowned rats. I think Swamp-Thing's mother died in here at some point.” _Plop._

The guy sounded annoyed, but then if Juan-Andrés was precariously balanced on the edge of a roof and shoving his hand into gunk he'd probably be testy too. Or terrified of falling.

Wait...Juan-Andrés blinked down at his gloved hands, suddenly realizing why Red Hood had texted that he'd regret offering to do whatever the man wanted.

Juan-Andrés was expected to devote his afternoon to _cleaning gutters_ four-stories up in this humid, hot weather. He'd _volunteered_ for this.

 _Ugh._ He was blaming Randy. Juan-Andrés expected free drinks tomorrow, and not the swill The Saddle had on tap, something good! He could be racing right now, going back to jail was better than this!

Okay, no it wasn't. Anything was better than going back to jail.

“I know I said we could do whatever you wanted, but I was thinking more like Netflix and chill, or going to a pool hall or something,” he confessed. Did Red Hood even have Netflix? He had to, right? Everyone had Netflix these days.

Red Hood wiped his forehead on his arm above the gloves, looking like he didn't give two shits about Juan-Andrés' vague ideas of Netflix or pool. “Joke's on you, man. You sold yourself into slavery, so get your ass up here. I'll buy you some beers afterward,” he offered.

This did mollify Juan-Andrés towards being shamelessly volunteered as manual labor. He'd done worse for less. It was a good thing he was wearing clothes he worked at the shop in. He never wore anything nice to work, since it was liable to be covered in grease, oil and who knew what else by the end of the day.

Juan-Andrés looked around, expecting to see a ladder or something, but didn't find one. “How do I get up there?”

Red Hood pointed towards a window on the fourth floor where a bit of the roof dipped down to the third floor and a brave soul could climb out relatively easily. “I jumped up here from the window in Biz's room. I can get the ladder if you want me to, but it's rickety as hell so I don't recommend it.”

“I'll take the window,” Juan-Andrés decided after a moment. “You make it sound less dangerous than the crappy ladder.”

“Great. Less work for me,” Red Hood said distractedly, then inched along the roof to reach a new area of gutter. “Just go back in. Artemis will tell you where to go.”

Juan-Andrés made a noise of understanding and drifted back through the door, feeling like he'd walked into the Twilight Zone. The Red Hood cleaned his own gutters. The Red Hood made _him_ help him clean his own gutters. He was about to help the Red Hood clean gutters. At no point after being called a pussy and texting Red Hood to hang out had Juan-Andrés anticipated this outcome.

Back inside the house, he realized he didn't know who Artemis was, but the giant woman who'd cleared him for entrance was sitting at the dining table there, polishing a...giant axe resting across her knees. This gave a whole knew definition to the phrase 'body like a battle axe'.

“There's a window? I'm supposed to ask Artemis—” Juan-Andrés started but was immediately cut off.

The woman pointed towards a set of stairs, green eyes narrowed with hostility. “Fourth floor, first door. Touch nothing, interloper.”

Juan-Andrés swallowed, unsure what he'd done to warrant being called an 'interloper'. “Right. Got it,” he answered and jumped to follow her directions. He really wasn't interested in finding out what she could do with that axe. Belatedly he wondered if this was the Amazon that Giz had mentioned from an internet post about Red Hood. There had also been something about Superman that Dick had said was actually a clone, but if the clone lived here too, he wasn't around right now.

He took the stairs up one flight, two flights, three. The sign in front of the house had suggested this was a boarding house of some kind, but if it had been there was no evidence it still was. The place was hauntingly empty, most of the doors down the hallways he saw were closed, and the ones that were open had sheets thrown over furniture and a thick film of dust.

When he finally got to the fourth floor, he saw some signs of habitation from the music pumping out of one room and the open door to the room Red Hood had said belonged to 'Biz'. Mindful of the angry woman's thinly veiled threats, he kept his hands even more to himself than he'd intended to and went inside, feeling curious despite himself.

The room had a California King bed with a plain blue bedspread, but otherwise looked like it belonged to a child. A Superman plush held pride of place at the head of the bed and a shelf displayed a few toys and action figures that would have been appropriate for a young boy, as well as a few early reader books, many of them featuring superheroes, particularly Superman. There was also a decent sized television and a Playstation 4 with two controllers on a dresser and a pair of beanbag chairs stacked by the closet.

All in all, it was a room that Juan-Andrés would have been happy to have as a kid. He wouldn’t have called himself deprived, but he'd always been forced to share a room with his older brother Emilio, who'd been kind of a jerk and still was, to be honest. His parents would never have allowed him a game system either, even if he could have sat still long enough to play one. They had 'ideas' about them causing violent and criminal urges—which was funny because he'd never played a video game at all until he was already out of jail for theft, street racing, reckless endangerment and drug possession.

He went over to the window where it looked like there was usually a nightstand, but said piece of furniture had been moved out of the way to the middle of the floor. Juan-Andrés gripped the upper window sill and hauled himself up, ducking through the window to step out onto the roof.

This far above street level there was actually a bit of a breeze, and you could just make out the greenery of Grant Park sticking up above a swathe of condos and brownstones and the tops of ship masts from the Dixon Docks peeked out in the other direction. It might have been nice if a scattering of old brick-faced apartment buildings rising a few levels higher didn't get in the way of the skyline and make the Victorian house look out of place.

Then he made the mistake of looking _down._

Juan-Andrés throat felt as dry as a desert as he swallowed and tried to make it non-obvious that he was clinging desperately to the window opening. He'd performed jumps on his bike that were damned high, but with the rush he got from riding he didn't actively think about how far away the ground was and what the pull of gravity was liable to do to his skull. Besides, motorcycles had shocks and were made of metal and plastic, not flesh and bone. Juan-Andrés had never thought of himself as a guy who had a fear of heights, but he was going to have to reevaluate that opinion because even though the slope grade of the roof wasn't especially steep, this was scary.

 _Pussy_...he heard in the corner of his mind, but this time it didn't have Randy's voice, it had his own.

“Woah, the view is kind of...” he trailed off.

“Smoggy?” came Red Hood's voice.

He'd wandered over from the edge of the roof to meet him, where the guy now stood with his arms crossed looking amused at Juan-Andrés' expense and unfairly comfortable on the uneven slate roof tiles. Then again, Gotham vigilantes were known for roof-running so this was probably business as usual for him, aside from the daylight. The beating sun had left a dark spot of sweat on Red Hood's tank-top and his bangs were sticking up from wiping at his forehead. There were also smears of black soot or mud or sooty-mud on one elbow and the sun had already made some headway in giving him more freckles in even this small amount of time. The guy must be nocturnal even outside of vigilante hours.

“I was going to say 'high',” Juan-Andrés confessed, though he supposed 'smoggy' made sense. On the horizon you could see where the air was a nasty brown close to the streets and abruptly faded to blue further up. He tried to make his arms loosen up and pull away from the window, but those fight-or-flight instincts he usually ignored where screaming _no!_ and for once he agreed with them.

Oh God, this was dangerous. Juan-Andrés felt like he needed a safety harness. Or solid ground. Speaking of solid, this roof looked original and half the tiles were cracked or broken. Had anyone inspected it this century?

“This roof is stable, right?” Juan-Andrés asked, voice embarrassingly quivery. Now that he looked, the slope was also kind of...wavy.

“More stable than the ladder anyway,” Red Hood answered with a shrug and a stamp of his feet on the roof, which wasn't exactly a ' _yes, it's absolutely stable and will at no point_ _fall_ _out from under you_ '.

The man rolled his shoulders, shaking out stiff muscles from bending over and added, “But the fall through the roof to the fourth floor is still shorter than it is from a ladder to the ground, so it doesn't actually matter.”

Juan-Andrés felt his own eyes go wide and he squeezed out a chuckle tinged with hysteria. “Oh, so if it does cave in I won't die. Good to know.”

“A fall from here to the dirt probably wouldn't kill you either,” Red Hood said for no other reason that Juan-Andrés could imagine but that seeing him squirm was good entertainment for the guy. “You'd just be a quadriplegic and have to blink-spell your conversations for the rest of your life.”

How unsettling. Juan-Andrés had questions, though. “I get the quadriplegia, from spinal damage and stuff,” Juan-Andrés said, “But where is my voice going? Why would I have to blink-spell everything?”

“From the massive head trauma. It'll probably make you forget how to talk and tie your shoes. Not that you'll be tying your shoes much with legs and hands that don't work,” Red Hood explained with morbid glee, wearing a smirk that seemed to take up his whole face. He had the generous sort of mouth that made every expression just seem more _expressive._ It was oddly charming, or charismatic or something.

“Oh, of course,” Juan-Andrés answered, breathless with nerves and trying not to look down. This was not the time to think to himself that Red Hood was kind of a cool dude.

Red Hood gave a dark chuckle and clapped Juan-Andrés on a shoulder hard enough to jostle him and make his stomach do flip-flops in panic. It was _definitely_ on purpose. Nevermind, he wasn't cool at all, he was a _jerk_.

“Hey, if you actually look like you're going to fall, I'll grab you, okay?” Hood said, walking towards the edge of the roof to resume his work on the gutters with fearless ease.

“You swear?” Juan-Andrés asked, glancing over to meet Red Hood's steely gray-blue eyes. He must have looked pretty scared because the Red Hood's expression turned serious and almost...kind. He itched the back of his neck and got mud all over it without seeming to notice and sighed.

“Yeah, I swear. I got you, man,” Red Hood assured, and the very certain way he said this and maintained eye contact was strangely convincing. Maybe Juan-Andrés was crazy to think a guy with no powers and no motivation for saving a criminal would have the wherewithal to do anything about Juan-Andrés falling off a roof, but he thought he could believe him. Red Hood wouldn't let him fall to his death without at least trying to stop it.

So...now Juan-Andrés had _no_ excuses to pussy out.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Juan-Andrés let go of the window sill very, _very_ tentatively and stepped away from safety towards the edge. “I'm trusting you, okay? Shit, this is high...”

Red Hood shook his head with a bit of that amused smile still lurking on his face. Clearly his suffering was funny to the man. Checking the stability of each step before he put any weight on it, Juan-Andrés eventually joined him by the rain gutter and carefully lowered himself to his knees and ended up orienting his body to the side so the toes of his feet weren't aimed toward the edge. Angling straight at it had felt too much like gravity would just pull him over the side.

“Try to lean back, and don't put your weight on the gutter,” Red Hood advised while observing him, presumably to make sure he didn't take a dive on his watch. “I don't trust this shit. Half of it needs replaced, but I don't want to tear it out until we get a dry stretch. It's supposed to be rain storms straight into July.”

“'Don't put my weight on the flimsy stuff that's about to fall off the building in disrepair.' Got it,” Juan-Andrés said, nodding to himself with a solemn expression that had Red Hood rolling his eyes.

“Pull the dry stuff out by hand and I'll come in behind you and scrape out the muck with the spade,” Red Hood directed, showing him by pulling out a handful of dried pine needles, oak leaves, bits of trash and who the hell knew what else and chucking it off the side of the building. At the bottom of the gutter was a three-inch thick layer of black mud and gunk that looked like it could have spawned something unknown to science that was probably gooey and flesh-eating.

“Hey, how come you get the shovel-thing?” Juan-Andrés found himself complaining. He had gloves on, but he still didn't want to touch any of it if he didn't have to.

Red Hood gave an annoyed huff and raised a brow. “Cuz I don't want you dropping it if you start to fumble,” was the surprisingly logical answer. “I don't have time to be running up and down stairs all day.”

“Oh, okay. I guess I'd rather have two free hands, anyway,” Juan-Andrés decided, and took the plunge, pulling out a wad of sticks and leaves and flinging it away, pointedly not watching the bits plummet to the ground. Red Hood shoveled out the mud after him, which turned out to be a harder job than Juan-Andrés had guessed, because there was a crusty edge that had dried like concrete that he had to viciously scrape at to flake off.

After a few minutes of companionable plugging away at the task together with metal music playing from one window as their only distraction from work, the surreality of it all hit Juan-Andrés again. Here he was, on a summer afternoon, back in Gotham of all places, talking to the Red Hood in a more or less friendly manner after the guy had railroaded him into helping him clean gutters four stories in the air, then promised to save his life if he fell off a roof.

Just, just...what?!

Juan-Andrés frowned and blurted out, “This is so weird! I'm cleaning the Red Hood's gutters!”

“If I'm not in the body armor just call me Jason, or Jay,” Red Hood corrected him without looking up from his chore. Luckily, he didn't seem angry or particularly bothered at the slip. That he and Red Hood were the same person mustn’t be too big of a secret.

“Right, sorry,” Juan-Andrés said anyway. Not Red Hood, but Jason. Jason, like the horror-franchise character. Such an appropriate name, and supposedly he'd been born with it. That was fate, right there.

The job was a monotonous one, but Juan-Andrés managed to stay surprisingly focused on it, the ever present danger of toppling off the roof keeping him on his toes. For a time it was nothing but grab, toss, grab, toss, scoot down, repeat. Still, after the novelty of being a few dozen feet in the air wore off, his mind started to wander and he began to contemplate the kinds of questions one does when confronted by a sort-of criminal, sort-of vigilante cleaning gutters right next to you on an old Victorian manor. Somewhere between a text telling him he'd regret offering to do the man's activity of choice, and being told he'd catch Juan-Andrés if he fell, Red Hood—Jason—had become the slightest bit less terrifying.

“So...this is your house? Or, you live here?” Juan-Andrés found himself asking. Sue him, he was bored and curious, okay? He wouldn’t have thought a guy like Jason would live in a historical house, he'd pictured concrete bunkers or the kind of apartment building that housed two brothels and a meth lab.

“This is Faye's place,” Jason said absently, roughly scraping at a particularly stubborn bit of crusted mud. “Faye Gunn, A.K.A. Ma Gunn. It's on the sign out front.”

He hummed a sound of acknowledgment. Yes, Juan-Andrés had seen the sign, but it hadn't explained a damn thing really. Like what the hell was _Ma Gunn's School for Wayward Boys_ , why was it empty of any 'wayward boys' discounting Jason, and who was Faye Gunn to Jason exactly? Plenty of questions, no answers given.

Jason scraped another spade full of muck out from the gutter, this particular pile died red from rust spots in the metal underneath, and jerkily flung it away. “But yeah, I live here sometimes,” he admitted. “I'm not going to threaten you, but don't tell Dick. I don't want him dropping in here left and right.”

Juan-Andrés raised an eyebrow that he didn't think Jason could actually see. Saying he wasn't going to threaten him was somehow almost as threatening as actually issuing a threat. “If you don't want me to then I won't, but hiding your address from your brother is kind of weird.”

After all, Juan-Andrés didn't get along with his parents or older siblings and sometimes actively disliked them, but they still knew his address. If they had something to say to him, they could say it to his face. Jason and Dick had seemed tense around each other but not as if they didn't like or care about one another; the opposite, really. Hiding his address seemed paranoid.

Jason's reply was unexpectedly flat and not what he expected to hear. “We're not related.”

Juan-Andrés blinked, pausing in his work gathering sticks from the gutter trough. Oh, right, Dick had mentioned that. But Dick acted like the two were real family, so he didn't think it mattered. “Dick said you're adoptive brothers.”

“Dying fixed that legal entanglement. Now we've got nothing to do with each other,” Jason said.

Juan-Andrés frowned down at a broken roof slate. Jason had mentioned he was legally dead or something like that at the group meeting. Juan-Andrés had assumed that was some kind of joke he just didn't get, but apparently it...wasn't? And the cold, emotionless way he spoke the words led Juan-Andrés to believe there was actually a lot of emotion hidden beneath it somewhere. Someone who didn't actually care would be more casual and blasé.

“From the way Dick talks in group, _he_ still thinks of you as his brother,” he felt obligated to point out. Juan-Andrés had heard enough from Dick at their Run-Off meetings over the past month to know he thought of Jason as real family and not someone who had no ties to him because a legal document said as much.

Jason snorted, lip lifting in a sneer that made Juan-Andrés flinch. “Dick also thinks chocolate is it's own food group. The guy just doesn't know what's good for him,” he spat, a hint of a growl in his voice. “He shouldn't want anything to do with me.”

Juan-Andrés shifted uncomfortably, the feeling only in part from knees that didn't like resting on hot, uneven stone. Shawn had asked him to be a sponsor, said Juan-Andrés could do it, expected him to do his best and Randy had encouraged him. He had enough experience with self-loathing and trying to push people away that he knew what it looked liked, but sponsor or no, he didn't think Jason would want to hear his opinion on it. And when it came down to it, Juan-Andrés barely knew anything about the situation except that clearly Dick and Jason's relationship was more complicated than he'd guessed.

He thought it was probably too early to talk about it now with someone who was still a stranger, especially when it obviously pissed Jason off just to mention it. He'd been like that too, at first. Didn't want to talk to Randy about anything, didn't even want to like him. That had changed, but it took time. That was probably the most important thing to work on at the moment. He wasn't good with any of that psych-stuff anyway. He'd talk about it with the guys tomorrow at The Saddle. And maybe with Shawn. See what they thought. But for now, a subject change was probably in order.

“Who is the lady with the huge, uh, everything? You're girlfriend?” Juan-Andrés asked, latching onto the first unrelated question he could think of.

“That's Artemis. She's not my girlfriend, she's an Amazon and a...teammate,” Jason said with less hostility, though the hesitant way he said 'teammate' seemed to suggest it meant a lot more to him than the word implied at face-value.

Suddenly, Jason smirked. “Also, a little advice,” he added, “don't bother hitting on that 'uh, everything' unless you like your bones broken. Besides, I'm ninety-five percent certain she's a lesbian.”

Juan-Andrés refused to blush, but raised both brows, very impressed. A real Amazon, like Wonder Woman? Cool. She certainly looked the part, too. Badass and sexy. Juan-Andrés presently had no intention of making a pass at the lady since he'd just instinctively known it was a good way to get cut in half, but it would be nice to know for certain that he really had no chance before he risked bodily harm if Juan-Andrés ever changed his mind.

“You don't know for sure? You can't just ask her?” Juan-Andrés wondered. He figured a ' _dot-dot-dot_ -teammate' could ask that kind of thing and it not be weird, probably.

“Well I _could_ , but I fall into the category of people who don't like my bones broken,” Jason said with all seriousness.

Or maybe they couldn't. Moving on.

“Why did you need my help if you've got her?” Weren't Amazons super strong? Though he supposed that wasn't actually that useful in this instance, whatever. “An Amazon is probably way better at standing on roofs than I am,” he assumed. Better at falling off them without dying, too.

Jason sighed, looking thoroughly annoyed, though thankfully not at Juan-Andrés, as he said, “You'd think so, but she helped for _ten fucking seconds_ and managed to crush the whole edge of one stretch of gutter, so I kicked her off the job.”

Jason jerked his head toward a part of the gutter near a downspout that had already been done when he'd arrived. Juan-Andrés had to lean back to see around him— _no way_ was he leaning forward—but there was indeed a really wonky piece sticking out from the edge of the roof with almost perfect hand prints in the outer side and some brackets broken where the gutter was pulled away from the mounting board. Yeah, he could see how that was an issue.

“Is that why she looks so pissed off?” he wondered. The redhead had been pretty territorial about...something. Pouting, maybe.

“Naw, she's always like that,” Jason said, but his look of fondness better suited affection towards a cantankerous pet cat than a baleful Amazonian warrior who carried a big damn axe and fucked up his gutters.

The conversation moved on to other harmless things, like music, movies and television—which Jason claimed not to have. This was either complete bullshit or Jason wasn't human after all.

“You don't have a TV? So my dreams of Netflix were doomed from the start?” he asked, feeling weirdly disappointed by the thought. As it turned out, he and Jason actually had really similar taste in music—rock, punk and metal—which was really cool because Juan-Andrés couldn't stand Randy's country music, Giz's dubstep, Grimm's Show Tunes or Dick's non-existent taste that just consisted of the Top 40's Pop. The guy seemed woefully out of touch with movies and TV though and he'd wanted to give him recommendations.

Jason shrugged, wearing a confused sort of expression. Like maybe the thought that someone would want to hang out and stream a show with him was a foreign concept. “I have a laptop. We could still watch Netflix.”

“Movies on a tiny screen? That's so lame,” Juan-Andrés grumbled without really thinking.

Jason rolled his eyes and flung a scoop full of gutter-mud containing the fifth dead mouse they'd come across down onto the lawn below. Nasty. “You will _not_ pressure me into buying a fucking big-screen television.”

Wait, _could_ he pressure Jason into buying a big-screen TV? Juan-Andrés hadn't even thought about it.

“I can _try,_ ” he replied and Jason actually let out a laugh.

Jason had been nearly at the halfway mark when Juan-Andrés arrived and in about an hour they'd managed to scrape out the last of the gunk clogging the gutters. Since he wasn't nearly as comfortable on the roof as Jason was, he sent Juan-Andrés down to ground level to hook up a hose and they used a rope tied to the sprayer at one end to haul it up to the roof. While he was spraying out the last of the residual muck in the gutters and downspouts, Jason sent Juan-Andrés to retrieve a hardware store bag that contained a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, a pack of duct tape and a few cans of spray-on rubber sealant.

Somehow he managed to climb back on the roof from the window without tumbling off the side and going splat in the shrubs. Upon Jason's direction, Juan-Andrés went around tightening the rusty screws where he could as the other man got the trickier work of banging out the worst of the dents in the thin metal gutters. This including a few crushing hand imprints where Jason explained that Artemis had to scramble to catch herself from falling and had used all her super-human strength in a slight panic. Amazonian durability or not, Juan-Andrés couldn't blame the woman for freaking out. Four-stories was no joke of a fall.

“This will have to do, I guess,” Jason grumbled when a series of violent smacks with the mallet managed to get the gutter straight below the edge of the roof again instead of the nasty double-u curve it had before, though the twisted metal hand prints were mostly still there.

As Juan-Andrés was spreading duct tape over some rusted-out holes in the bottoms of the rain gutter that had rendered the trough directing the water away from the house's cellar a useless accessory, he remarked, “I think just replacing this stuff outright might have been easier.”

Jason was going along behind him and shaking the can of rubber spray-on sealant before spraying it over the duct tape. The result wasn't that pretty, but it was reasonably watertight. “Yeah, probably, but this is special historical crap.”

He drew Juan-Andrés' attention to some beautiful shaping on the metal that gave it that Victorian flair. “See it's got all this filigree stuff on the front and kind of looks like crown molding?” Jason said. “I've got to have it special ordered, I already took all the measurements earlier and took some pictures. This fix has just got to last for a month or two until I can have someone come out and replace it.”

Juan-Andrés frowned. That all sounded like a _lot_ of hassle. And this wasn't even his house, he just lived here 'sometimes', whatever that meant. “Shouldn't the owner be the one doing all this?” he wondered allowed.

Jason scoffed. “I'm not going to make a seventy-year old woman deal with this mess. Faye is a gnarled old hag whose best friends are her pack of cigars and her uzi, but for some reason she actually claims to want me around. The least I can do is keep this house from sinking into the ground for her. It's her childhood home, you know? I mean, I couldn't give less of a shit about the dingy apartment I lived in as a kid, but this place means something to her.”

Juan-Andrés looked up from duct-taping over a hole and just stared at Jason. Yeah, if his uncle or his grandmother asked him to do something like this, he'd do it for sure even if it was a pain, but some random old lady he didn't have any relation to? Probably not. This was _real work._ Normally you'd pay someone to do this and Jason was just doing it for free.

“You're a good guy, Jason,” Juan-Andrés realized the moment he said it.

Jason looked at him in disbelief and gave a huff. “Please. I'm the biggest asshole I know.”

Considering Juan-Andrés knew the guy had personally met Black Mask and a number of other super villains, he rather doubted that. “I've known bigger,” Juan-Andrés said. “Guys that would laugh in the face of an old lady who asked them to help her out with her gutters.” He'd met a few of them in jail.

Jason's eyes flickered away, seemingly embarrassed as he mumbled, “She didn't actually ask me, I just did it...”

Juan-Andrés shook his head slowly. This guy was in denial. _Denial._ “No one even asked him, ladies and gentleman! He 'just did it'.”

To Juan-Andrés' astonishment, Jason's face blushed red to his ears. Juan-Andrés stared, all the fear he'd had of the man just gone. Seeing the six foot tall twenty-something man trained to be a badass by Batman blush under his freckles had just taken all his intimidation away. Juan-Andrés was pretty sure he'd never think of Jason as scary again because he'd remember this moment.

Juan-Andrés smirked. “Are you really even the Red Hood, or do you just play him on TV?”

Jason scowled at him and growled, “I could kick you off this roof if you need convincing.”

“No, I'm good. I believe you,” Juan-Andrés hastened to say.

Because while he believed Jason was the Red Hood, and even believed the man would kick him off the roof if he pissed him off enough, he also believed Jason when he'd promised to save Juan-Andrés if he fell.

 

 


	7. Simmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more feelings are shared than one might expect at a Boy's Night Out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah this took a long time, I'm sorry. I don't know why it was giving me so much trouble, but I'm finally mostly happy with this chapter. I hope you guys like it. Luckily, I've got some solid stuff on the next chapter already so a wait this long shouldn't happen again. Enjoy!

“—and then we watched an old Kung-Fu movie in this tech-cave he's got in the basement with these giant monitors, and drank this Crime Alley moonshine that, uh, his landlady makes herself.”

Juan-Andrés paused to take another drink of his _Modelo_ , eyes wide and distracted, like he'd just come off a roller-coaster ride and couldn't decide if the experience was a thrill or a nightmare. Considering the incident in question happened a full twenty-four hours ago, that spoke to the intensity of the feeling behind the situation.

He turned to Dick, somewhat awed as he said, “Did you know your brother speaks Chinese? We watched the movies with subtitles and he kept pointing out where they were wrong.”

It was Thursday night at _The Saddle_ , where Dick typically met up with Giz and Juan-Andrés to keep Randy company at the bar and have a few relaxing drinks while the place was mostly dead. The low lighting, obnoxious cowboy décor and constant stream of Hank Williams and Willy Nelson playing in the background had long since become familiar and maybe even comforting to Dick, and he nursed his drink, leaning over polished wood bar, listening to his friends' recent exploits.

He'd expected to hear the normal chatter about work or significant-others or lack-thereof. Maybe a comment or two about the last group meeting—it had been one of the more memorable after all. What Dick _hadn't_ expected to hear, was a harrowing tale from Juan-Andrés about how the Red Hood sent him blindly to a mysterious location for a mysterious activity, only to force him onto a roof and make him clean his landlady's gutters, before plying him with very illegal moonshine and Kung-Fu films in what was obviously a base of operations.

Which was somehow both better _and_ worse than it sounded.

Dick determinedly sipped his drink while glaring at the bar.

Jason sending someone into a situation with no information or elaboration was par for the course. He seemed to think he had to trick people into helping him by being mysterious about it, which...well, was _really annoying_ , but also effective, he'd admit. The technique had worked on Dick more than once, not that just asking like a normal person wouldn't have achieved the same result, probably. Tim was also a frequent victim and Damian mightn't admit it but he'd fallen prey before too. That he'd done it to Juan-Andrés was less surprising than the former-racer reaching out to him in the first place and Jason responding rather than ignoring it.

Dick had _hoped_ Jason would make friends with the group, and they would warm up to him in turn. In some ways this felt like a do-over for how he'd tried to bring Jason into the Teen Titans back in the day and messed it up royally. Back then, he hadn't done it with a genuine heart. He'd just been trying to get Bruce off his back and avoid him in turns, and his friends had caught on to his mood and treated Jason as a usurper at worst and an annoyance at best. He'd really screwed it up if he was being honest, and it haunted him to this day. To see his plans involving his brother go _right_ for once, to see acceptance and companionship happening before his very eyes so soon, ought to have been a joyous occasion _._

But it wasn't. Actually it kind of pissed him off.

Dick took a large r swallow of his drink, letting the buzz sink in as  he examined his feelings. 

It had taken Dick years to regain any kind of  friendship or familiarity with Jason and yet Juan-Andrés had surpassed his efforts in less than an afternoon. It was  astonishing , and kind of irritating.  It wasn't fair. With all the  history between Jason and himself, they should have been able to bridge the gap of friendship between them  more easily, but it was because of that very baggage that they couldn't. 

Dick knew all about Jason's knack for languages, his thirst for classic literature, knew he loved Kung-Fu movies and, oddly, anything made before 1960, especially old black and whites. His favorite movie was _Some Like It Hot._ His favorite book was _Pride and Prejudice_.  Or they had been, at least. As a child Jason was a foul-mouthed tween from Crime Alley with interests more in line with Alfred's than any kid he'd ever met and a certain jaded cynicism far beyond his years. He'd seemed downright bizarre to Dick, until little sparks of youthful eagerness and flashes of caring and vulnerability had shown through the boy's protective mask.

Juan-Andrés didn't know  that stuff.  _Shouldn't_ know that stuff. Dick could, because he was family.  A nd he and Alfred had told Tim all the stories they could remember about the boy they knew who could curse like a sailor in six languages and wrote  grad student -worthy essays  on  Billy Wilder and  Jane Austen at thirteen, and didn't seem to know how to hold back when it came to anything, not learning or punching or shouting or snarking. Tim ate it up, having idolized Jason when he'd been Robin, and felt genuine loss despite never getting to meet him. Damien had been much less enthusiastic to hear about Jason until they'd discovered he was alive, and then he took the stories as a means to analyze his enemy. 

But despite everything that Jason had done as their foe, he had still been family. They'd been the ones who'd held out hope that the prodigal son would return. And he had, hadn't he?

So why did it still feel like Jason was lost? Why was he making connections with other people and not Dick himself? It wasn't right.

_That's why you brought him to the group, Dickie,_ he reminded himself. As much as he'd hoped the truce with Bruce would bring Jason back into the fold and they'd be like real brothers, as they'd never been able to before, he was realistic enough to know it wouldn't happen overnight and might not even happen on its own.  Jason had too many wounds from people who'd called themselves his family, he wasn't going to let Dick in without a lot of work on his part. He had to prove to Jason that he didn't want to hurt him, that he wanted to help him.

Having friends like Juan-Andrés was a good thing, something that would help socialize Jason. Dick should be happy that his brother was making a friend, especially one that wasn't a morally-ambiguous vigilante.

It was hard though, when Dick felt so...

 _J_ _ealous_.

Dick swallowed down the feeling.

“Yeah, Chinese Standard _and_ Cantonese,” Dick answered Juan-Andrés' question, trying to keep hostility from his voice. He started using his fingers to list off, as he added, “He also speaks French, German, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Japanese, Tibetan and some Russian and Portuguese. He mentioned trying to learn Korean at some point too, but I don't know how far along he is on that.”

His drinking companions all looked suitably impressed by this revelation, and the fact that he'd known it and they hadn't gave Dick a twinge of superiority that was stupidly satisfying.

Sure, maybe Jason was being friendlier with Juan-Andrés than he expected, but he still didn't know his brother like Dick did. Didn't know his strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes. He'd go so far as to say the only person in the world who actually knew Jason _well_ was Roy Harper, but Dick certainly still knew much more than the Run-Offs did.  It was something at least.

“Is knowin' all them languages a Batman-trained thing?” Randy wondered aloud, wiping down the bar for lack of anything better to do with the place empty of anyone but their little group.

“More of a 'Jason'-thing,” Dick explained. “He's always been really good with languages,” he mused. “Me? Not so much. Not Red Robin, either. Only the current Robin knows half so many.”

When it came down to it though, Damian's four couldn't compete with Jason's twelve and change. Bruce's catalog of languages was more extensive even than Jason's, and while the Batman had made an effort with Dick to teach him, when his ward didn't take to the subject, Bruce didn't force it. Jason on the other hand had already come to the bat fluent in Spanish and Italian and conversational in Russian just from interacting with the immigrants and mobsters in Park Row. Once again it confused Dick as to why Jason, or anyone else, might think he didn't measure up to the rest of the Robins. He'd been as exceptional as any of his brothers, even from the start.

“So he's kind of a geek?” Juan-Andrés asked, brows raised.

“A _total_ geek,” Dick confirmed with a fond smile. “If you ever need to distract him from something, just mention Shakespeare, or Oscar Wilde, or Bernard Shaw and he'll yack for hours. He has _opinions._ ” And woe betide anyone who dared to open that can of worms. Jason was a brutal intellectual adversary who had no qualms about putting the ignorant in their places.

“I never would have guessed,” Giz said with a skeptical tilt to his mouth.

“I kind of did,” Juan Andrés said. “Every movie he's got was made fifty years ago. Except for the _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Sense and Sensibility_ remakes. I'd thought it was just that they belonged to the old lady who owned the place but I guess they really are his.”

Dick chewed on the inside of his mouth at another mention of this mysterious old woman. All of Jason's safe-houses that Dick knew about were apartments without basements and he owned them under various different identities, so he was genuinely clueless which place this could be.

And that worried him.

“Where did you say this place you guys hung out was?” Dick asked Juan-Andrés.

Juan-Andrés squirmed in his chair a moment before he said, “Actually...he told me not to tell you, Dick.”

Maybe it shouldn't have, but this answer felt like a punch to the gut. _Jason_ had told Juan-Andrés not to tell him? Not to tell _Dick_ , specifically? That...he didn't know how to feel about that.

Dick found himself frowning as he asked, “Did he say why?”

Shaking his head in a way that looked more cagey than genuinely at a loss, Juan-Andrés said, “He seemed kind of...paranoid. Like he thought you'd just show up in the middle of the night randomly or something.”

Dick refused to acknowledge that was something he was likely to do. He'd call first at least. Probably.

Vaguely offended that Jason had let a civilian—a civilian!—know his address but wouldn’t tell Dick himself, Dick bristled in his seat, squeezing his glass hard enough that it creaked. Distantly, he was aware that he was being pushy as he argued, “You should just tell me, it's a matter of safety. I already know a lot of Jason's other safe houses, and if he's living at this one, one of Gotham's vigilante's should know about it. ”

Not that Jason had ever told any bat about _any_ of them. It was more like Dick and the others had used every means of surveillance at their disposal to ferret them out, and he was still pretty sure they'd missed a few, including the one Jason had invited Juan-Andrés to.

But Juan-Andrés was shaking his head, firmly this time. “He trusted me, and if I want him to keep trusting me I can't just give him up at the drop of a hat. For all I know this is some kind of test—giving me something to see if I'll fuck it up and run immediately to you. I did weird shit like that with my uncle when I moved in after prison. I'd go out, just to walk to the store or something, but I'd purposefully not say where I was going, just to see if he'd be a dick about it. Jason seems way smarter than me so he's probably got a Russian-nesting dolls worth of tests going on.”

Dick had to admit that was very likely. Jason was so built up with defenses that everything you did was cataloged and analyzed and weighed against you. Even when he was a kid he'd always pushed the limits, trying to find where the boundaries were, as if the things another person said were lies until proven otherwise and only actions mattered. Dick, as well as Bruce and Alfred, had always found that baffling. They still did, because it was still true. He might not actively push against the rules anymore, because the consequences were harsher, but when Dick claimed to care about him, Jason still had that look of weariness as he said, “Sure,” like he was just humoring him because in his eyes the words didn't match his facts.

It was goddamn _frustrating_ , was what it was.

Dick just shook his head, feeling something ugly boil in his stomach. “Okay, I get it, you shouldn't tell me. But _why_ did he ask you to help him and not me in the first place _?_ ” Dick complained, hearing his own voice turn snappish and harsh. “I'm his _brother._ He doesn't even _know_ you.”

Juan-Andrés shrugged, thankfully not appearing insulted by Dick's thoughtless statement, though now he, Giz and Randy were eying him worriedly. “I doubt he planned on it, he just used me since I was there.”

Randy quirked his head in question. “Dick...are ya angry 'bout somethin'? Ya seem upset.”

Dick sighed and rubbed at his face, suddenly tired.  He didn't know how to explain what he was feeling. Or maybe he did, it just sounded more petty than he wanted to admit to being. 

“No, not at you guys. I'm sorry if it seemed that way,” Dick apologized, and then. “It's just that I would _totally_ help  Jason clean gutters and watch Bruce Lee movies and drink wine of questionably high alcohol content and legality. I _want_ to do that stuff, but he'd rather do it with basically anyone _but_ me! ”

The remains of his drink sloshed onto the floor as Dick's hand grew animated with his heating temper and Randy started eying him warily.

“Alright, I think ya've had enough Screwdrivers there, Dick,” Randy said, and he pulled Dick's empty glass out of his hand and behind the bar and...okay, maybe he was right. Even Dick could admit he was getting overly emotional about this and he was supposed to patrol later, anyway. He didn't need to push his buzz any further.

Giz's gaze slid over to Dick with no indication that he'd noticed his friend's composure slipping. “Dick, he lives in Gotham and you live in Blüdhaven. If I was him I wouldn’t make you commute that far just to clean gutters,” he offered. And it was logical. It was reasonable. But Dick didn't really care, he regularly commuted to New York City for Titans stuff, the half hour or so drive to Gotham was nothing to him.

“Fine, maybe not to clean gutters, but to visit then. Or do something, _anything,_ ” Dick argued, clenching his fists on his thighs beneath the bar. “And it's not just me, he doesn't hit up any other family there, either. Barely even talks to his friends. He's _always_ pulling this shit. ”

Juan-Andrés leaned closer to him, as if to provoke Dick's attention away from the hole he was glaring in the  shelf of booze over Randy's shoulder .  “Look, Dick. I t's not like I'm Shawn or anything, I only know about this stuff because of the group and my own  crap , but...I hung out with  this guy for one afternoon  and it's obvious he's  got  i ssues  with a capital 'I' .  He described his friend—who is clearly a super-close friend by the way he talks about her  and the fact that he lives with her —as  just  a 'teammate'.”

D ick  raised his eyes skyward with a sigh . Jason was  _still_ doing that with Artemis? He knew how strong their loyalty was to each other, and the ir prickly personalities were oddly well-matched. It seemed to Dick that having a friend and teammate who had never known him as Robin, who wasn't associated with  the  Bat-clan or any of the other superhero communities, was doing a lot of good for Jason. He'd warmed to Artemis more quickly than he'd thought his little brother capable of, and they were certainly friends. Maybe they even thought of each other as family. And yet he still wouldn't acknowledge that aloud?

With a frown, it occurred to Dick that Jason still did this with Roy at times too, and his former partner was probably the closest relationship in his current life. He wouldn't correct Dick when he called Roy his friend or even best friend, but Jason rarely if ever gave him that title himself. Artemis was stoic and probably wouldn't care if Jason confirmed her as a friend or not, but Dick wasn't sure how Roy handled it. He seemed to _need_ that kind of validation from his friends and lovers alike,  and Dick would expect such a refusal to call him a 'friend' would hurt Roy. 

But then again, even when Jason was acting an outright asshole, Roy was deftly able to intuit the feelings beneath his snarls in a way that Dick envied. Maybe being called a 'teammate' or 'partner' meant enough to him, if the feelings were there.

Hmm. Maybe Dick should ask him some time?

Randy nodded to himself sagely  from behind the bar . “Distancin' himself from carin' 'bout people.  Tryin' to make like he don't care when he does, cuz it's painful.  Pro'bly doesn't even realize he's doin' it. That's how I was  fer years . ”

“Yeah, what Randy said,” Juan-Andrés agreed. “He got really twitchy when I called you his brother, too. It's like he doesn't want any connections to anyone.”

Dick flinched, bracing himself for more evidence of his and Jason's broken relationship. “He got twitchy? What do you mean?”

Juan-Andrés seemed to hesitate, but as Dick let his eyes narrow at the delay, he finally said, “He keeps saying you guys aren't family and telling me to hide his address from you, then saying you shouldn't want anything to do with him. I can't tell if he's pissed at you, or pissed at himself, or something else altogether.”

Dick bit the inside of his mouth and had to tell himself not to get worked up as he rubbed at his face and fought back tears threatening to well up. “ _Jeez_ , Jason...” he complained under his breath. That was just _frigid._ Dick didn't think he'd meant it to feel that way, he'd just been talking with Juan-Andrés, but hearing he'd said that was honestly hurtful. 

Randy reached across the bar and pat his shoulder briefly in support.“Try not to let it get to ya, Dick. He'll come 'round. These things jus' take time.”

Nodding at this advice and trying to take it to heart, Dick explained,  “ He's a good person. And even if he pretends not to, I know he cares. It's just hard not to take it personally, sometimes.”

“I'll be honest, Dick,” Juan-Andrés began, taking another drink from his beer, looking thoughtful. “When you said your brother was the Red Hood, I thought you were a little delusional about him being a good guy. I expected some kind of psychotic gangster hit-man, and group last week didn't exactly change me mind.”

Dick nodded understanding and played with the phone in his jacket pocket, feeling slightly guilty. Only a few years ago 'psychotic gangster hit-man' would have been a pretty damned accurate descriptor. Even now it wasn't far off the mark. He didn't blame Juan-Andrés for thinking that way.

“ _But,_ having actually talked to him,” Juan-Andrés continued, wearing an expression that communicated surprise at his own words. “Jason isn't a bad guy. The dude helps old ladies with their gutters without being asked and blushes at compliments. He's obviously got issues, but so do all of us, it's really not that different.”

Dick felt his throat clench with emotion. Having the validation of someone outside the family, that Gotham's vigilantes weren't crazy for taking Red Hood back, really meant a lot to him. He hadn't known how much he'd needed it until Juan-Andrés had said the words ' _Jason isn't a bad guy_.'

“Not sure how I feel about him yet, but I'll take your words for it that Jason is okay,” Giz said with a shrug, “But it just makes me wonder—what makes a good person become someone like the Red Hood?”

The three Run-Offs seemed to be deeply contemplating the question as Dick stared at the ring of condensation his glass had left on the wood of the bar.

“At group, he said his old man beat 'em, like mine did,” Randy said thoughtfully into the silence. “I know how messed up that can make ya. It's like livin' in terror every day o' yer life. Afraid to go home, afraid ta make friends cuz they might judge you or get hurt too, and all the while he's beatin' into ya that yer a freak or ya done wrong when you ain't done nothin'. After that, it's like, nothing you ever do in yer life is good, and the feelin' never goes away no matter how old ya get. Even if yer perfect, it all feels wrong somehow, no matter what it is.”

Dick found himself blinking with watery eyes, Randy's confession like some kind of revelation. It made so much sense, really. Jason was always trying to measure up, to gain approval, always claiming Bruce or Dick didn't think he was good enough for anything. Dick had known about that insecurity even when Jason was a kid trying to live up to the Robin legacy in the face of disapproval from the original. At the time, he'd thought Jason just had some kind of chip on his shoulder, or felt threatened by him for Bruce's attention, and probably there was some of that, but maybe there was more to it. Those feelings of inadequacy he'd exhibited were more than simple sibling rivalry, but displays of true emotional damage.

“And that makes it easy ta be bad,” Randy concluded, nodding at his own words, reliving his old feelings. “Yer already bad, already wrong, already bein' punished fer nothin'. Makes ya wanna punish people back. Then at least it feels fair.”

“You might be on to something there, Randy,” Dick said, finding the idea fit almost _too_ well. His stomach felt queasy and he sensed his own heart rate speed up as he was struck by a memory of Jason with a gun to his chest.

 _Let the punishment fit the crime,_ he'd said, and put a bullet in another abuser, murderer, or mobster. _Let the punishment fit the crime._ _T_ hat phrase had haunted Dick for months as he struggled desperately to stop Red Hood's bloody crusade on the criminals of Gotham in Bruce's absence and presumed death.

That period seemed so long ago and at the same time it felt like yesterday. Jason never stopped believing that slogan, he just set it aside to get some peace, really. Slit throats and bullets to the cranium never felt like a punishment fit for _any_ crime to Dick, but when the 'crime' started at innocence and the punishment at violence, he could see that fairly quickly murder became the only measure extreme enough.

“Dick, why did you guys have a falling out in the first place?” Juan-Andrés suddenly asked. “Is it just because he turned into a criminal and you're obviously against that, or was it something else?”

Dick sighed. He'd known they'd have to talk about this at some point, one would think he'd have decided what to say, but he still hadn't. He didn't want to reveal too much without permission, to tell anyone something that would upset Jason. And to be honest, Dick wasn't completely sure where it all began and how far Jason's anger went or where it came from. So often Dick thought he had a handle on their relationship and found out he was dead wrong. 

It was all just so...complicated. 

“I don't want to say too much. You should probably ask him about it instead,” Dick suggested, and he was _not_ running from the question, he was being considerate of Jason's privacy and didn't want to put words in his mouth. Or at least that's what he told himself. 

“But from _my_ perspective, what  Red Hood did when he first showed up in Gotham definitely put us at odds, but the reality is that B and I were the ones who messed up first,” he confessed. “If we hadn't, then he probably never would have done the things he did.”

“You, Dick? Mess up that bad?” Giz asked, and his disbelief was something Dick appreciated, even if it was based in ignorance. Richard Grayson, Nightwing, wasn't perfect. In fact he was _so_ far from perfect that it was almost a joke.

Dick swallowed back nerves as he began,  “Back when  Jason was Robin, when he was just a kid,  one of our worst villains got to him and...we weren't able to save him. Batman didn't get there in time and I wasn't even on the planet.  This was bad enough, but  then afterward we didn't avenge him, didn't  put an end to the person who hurt him.  In the years that followed, the same villain went on to hurt and kill other people, he even tried to get to Jason again, and our other brothers and friends, and he believes that's our fault—and I can't exactly say he's wrong. ”

He shook his head and stared at his hands, gripped tight in his lap. “I can't accept murder, no matter who it is, or what they've done. And Jason's right that Gotham has a 'revolving door' problem, but that doesn't mean he has to become a murderer to put an end to it. It shouldn't be on him to stop the cycle, it's on Batman and it's on me and the rest of Gotham to make sure there are no leaks in the system.”

Giz gave him a worried look. “You're blaming yourself too much, Dick. You can't hold yourself and Batman responsible for what _other_ people have done. Whoever this villain is, him getting out and hurting people was his choice, not yours. The fault lies with him.”

“Most of it does, true,” Dick admitted. “But don't vigilantes and the police also take that responsibility on once we lock criminals up? We say, 'Justice was done, and these people can't hurt you anymore,' to the victims and their families. But if we can't actually promise that, then we're just liars.”

“That's the state's problem, Dick.” Randy argued. “Nightwing an' Batman ain't jailers. Yer not the ones who're supposed ta worry about that stuff.”

Dick gave a bitter laugh, because telling anyone in his community that something wasn't their problem or wasn't there business was just foolish. “Randy, I'm a vigilante,” he reminded the bartender. “If I didn't actively worry about that stuff and feel responsible for it, then Nightwing wouldn’t exist. Besides, some of these guys are so far beyond ordinary criminals that the state just plain needs help.”

“Sure, but you're doing what you can, right?” Juan-Andrés pointed out. “It's not like you're ignoring the problem. No one expects you to be perfect.”

 _I should be, though,_ Dick couldn't help but think. Every time Bruce surprised him by asking his opinion on a case, when Damian hesitated and looked to him for direction on patrol, or Tim came to him with his worries, even when Jason called him 'golden boy' in a voice that was half derision and half admiration, he felt that need to live up to their expectations. Despite all of his many, many faults, despite how horribly flawed he knew himself to be, Dick _wanted_ to be perfect. Not for himself, but for the Titans, and the Run-Offs, and for Bruce, and Damian and Tim and Jason. So they'd never be disappointed in him. So he'd never have to see them hurt.

“Maybe not,” Dick agreed, though it didn't quite feel true in his mouth, “but it's because we can't reliably stop these people that Red Hood feels he has to kill. He's promised Batman to stop, and that's what's keeping this truce alive for now, but I can't help but feel that we're one Arkham break-out away from losing him again—it's just inevitable. I guess I'm just hoping that bringing him to the group can make a difference.”

At this, Randy, Giz and Juan-Andrés straightened and squared their shoulders as if filled with new resolve.

“We'll do our best, Dick,” Randy promised gravely, and his other two friends voiced the same. As if they really did understand what was on the line for Dick. As if they really cared.

“Thanks,” Dick croaked against a tightness in his throat, and the word couldn't properly communicate the depths of his feelings, but it was as close as he could get. “For giving him a chance. I know it wasn't easy for you.” He looked at Giz on the other side of Juan-Andrés and Randy standing behind the bar with a rag thrown over his shoulder. “For any of you.”

“I haven't really done anything yet, but it's no big deal, Dick,” Giz said with a shrug, reaching up to his shoulder where his pet squirrel usually sat before he seemed to remember he'd left him with Pam. “You really saved the group when Mister Nice was trying to frame us. You were the only one who believed we'd really changed and we're not going to forget that. If we didn't give your brother a shot, then we'd just be a bunch of hypocrites.”

“Still,” Dick pressed. Despite everything he'd done to ingratiate himself to the group, he knew the Red Hood wasn't exactly a _small_ favor. He'd been one of the top ten most wanted criminals in the country at one point.

“He's right, Dick,” Randy said with a firm nod. “The Run-Offs stick together. And ya might not have been a villain, but yer one o' us. We're not goin' ta leave ya or anyone ya care about behind. It jus' wouldn't be right.”

“I'm not great at this stuff, but you say this guy needs our help,” Juan-Andrés said, dark eyes heavy with unexpressed emotion. “I've never...been the guy that helps before. I don't know if I can do it, but I'm going to try. That's something I should be thanking you for, Dick, not the other way around.”

Dick blinked back tears, forcing himself to keep a steady Nightwing-voice as he said, “No, never. You're all amazing, you're some of my best friends. You don't have to thank me for acknowledging that.”

Behind the bar, Randy nodded and reached over to clap Juan-Andrés on the shoulder. “Same here. Yer my best friends. And I'm proud o' ya, Juan-Andrés,” Randy said. “Ya were afraid ta be a sponsor, afraid ta meet the Red Hood, but ya faced yer fears and yer doin' a good job.”

Juan-Andrés smiled and slid his beer bottle across the bar from hand to hand, looking self-conscious at the declaration. “Thanks Randy. I learned it all from you. I still haven't forgotten you called me a pussy, though. I'm not saying 'watch your back' but, well, watch your back.”

Dick laughed along with Randy and Giz, feeling truly touched that he was being accepted and included, trusted even to the point of them all trusting him about someone as notorious as the Red Hood. This was something he'd only ever had with the Teen Titans group he'd founded. Something he was still trying to get _back_ with them, now that they were older.

The door to the bar opened, the cowbell attached ringing noisily. It was just as well that their conversation was winding down as it seemed like their privacy was at an end.

And then he realized who it was walking in with an arched eyebrow at all their dumb faces and it wasn't much of a hardship.

“Hey guys,” Shawn said, walking up to the bar to peck Dick on the cheek. “I'm here for my boo. Get your ball-and-chain jokes out of the way.”

“Yeah no, I'm not that brave,” Giz declined immediately, his hands rising in surrender.

Juan-Andrés snorted with amusement. “I'm usually good for it, but Dick is starting to get too buzzed and he's apparently a weepy drunk, so go ahead and take him.”

Dick was about to defend himself—he wasn't drunk, he was barely even buzzed at this point!—but Shawn rolled her eyes and talked over him. “Oh he's the weepiest drunk, you have no idea,” she revealed, “Of the two of us, he's _way_ more likely to cry on a couch watching a rom-com, drinking wine and eating ice cream.”

Well that was true... “Hey, I _like_ rom-coms. They're _nice,_ okay? Relaxing,” he said with a smile stretching across his face because he knew exactly the reaction he would get from it.

Shawn wrinkled her nose with disgust.“I think they're society's attempts to brainwash both men and women, reinforcing archaic and borderline-harmful gender roles and stereotypes, but that's just my opinion.”

Dick chuckled, shaking his head. “I'm dating a pessimist. How did this happen?”

“I'm dating a romantic. How did this happen?” Shawn mocked him.

Randy, Giz and Juan-Andrés audibly groaned.

“Just go already!” Juan-Andrés heckled them, shooing them with his hand. “Watching you two do the couples banter thing is just gross.”

Randy waved at them as if to hurry their exit along. “Have a good night, ya two. Get home safe, ya hear?”

Okay, he knew when he wasn't wanted. Dick rose from his seat and pulled a few bills from his wallet to settle his bill before laying a hand across Shawn's shoulders and turning to leave. “Bye Randy, Giz. Juan-Andrés. Thanks for everything tonight. See you at group on Friday.”

“Remember its costume night guys,” Shawn reminded them. “You can always change at the center if you don't feel comfortable wearing it out in public.”

The others thanked her for the reminder and Dick and Shawn left _The Saddle_ , making for Shawn's apartment nearby, Dick feeling much more refreshed than he had only a few minutes ago under the low lights of the bar and heavy conversation topics.

“Weepy drunk, huh? Did something happen?” Shawn asked as they dodged other pedestrians on the side walk as they passed under street lights that were just starting to flicker on under the red Blüdhaven sunset.

Dick shook his head, hesitant to dump on her when the night had just begun. They didn't have any grandiose plans, just dinner at her house, maybe some TV, but that didn't mean it wasn't important time he should spend on focusing on his girlfriend instead of himself and his problems. His vigilante activities took up so much of his time that he felt he owed her that.

“I'm really not that drunk. Or that weepy,” he said. “It's nothing, really. I don't want to bother you with it.”

Shawn slid a reproachful eye up at him from behind her glasses. “Dick, I'm your girlfriend. If you can't talk to _me_ about it, then who the heck _can_ you talk to? And you listen to me rant about the city cutting our funding and letting the damn casinos run everything around here. I can listen to you complain a little, it's really not a bother. And if it ever is you can bet I'll tell you so. I'm not the wallflower-type.”

“Yeah, you're not,” he chuckled, imagining someone calling Defacer a wallflower. Biting his lip hesitantly, Dick said, “It really is nothing, but... Juan-Andrés hung out with Jason this week as his sponsor.”

Shawn's expression became carefully neutral as they waited at an intersection. “Oh. Already? I'm a little surprised to hear that, but I'm glad. It went well, right? Juan-Andrés looked in one piece. I took your word for it that he wouldn't hurt anyone but I'll admit to having been worried.”

“No, it all went fine. Good even,” Dick assuaged her fears. “Randy sort of pushed him into it, but from what he was telling us they're really warming up to each other. Picking Juan-Andrés was a good idea, they seem to have a lot in common.”

“Okay. Good. But you don't seem happy about it,” she pointed out.

Dick sighed. He hadn't wanted to say any of this to Randy, Giz and Juan-Andrés, but having already gotten it out once, it was easier, his anxieties less nebulous, more settled. “I am happy they're getting along, but it just...doesn't seem fair. I'm the one who is always trying so hard, and yet I'm the one whose always being pushed away. Juan-Andrés might as well be a stranger. I'm family. I just can't help thinking, why him? Why not me? I know it's stupid to think that way, but it's really bothering me.”

Shawn nodded beside him, taking his concerns seriously, and in that moment he loved her all over again. “You guys haven't exactly told us everything about your situations,” she said, as they crossed the intersection and turned the corner onto the same street as her apartment complex. “But it's clear he has trauma associated with family. _Deep_ trauma. It would be hard not to, with abuse and neglect like he described. And it sucks, it really _isn't_ fair, but the fact that he does see you as family is probably what makes him compelled to push you away. Letting a stranger like Juan-Andrés in is safer than doing the same with you.”

Her dark eyes grew distant, probably thinking of her mother cheating on her father and leaving them both, as she said, “It really hurts, when family betrays you. It can sour you to the whole idea of it. And it can take a long time for you to start to trust again.”

Dick slid his hand into hers and squeezed tight, offering comfort. He knew he'd done the right thing when she squeezed back and gave him a smile.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked her, suddenly realizing she might be the best person _to_ ask. Her step-mother had won her over, after all, so she had to know what had help her feel the risk was worth it again to let someone in. 

“Be there. Be consistent. Be supportive,” she replied. “Just keep doing what you're doing, Dick. It's like with the kids at the center or a feral animal. It'll take time to prove you can be trusted, and the more times he's been betrayed, the longer it'll take.”

Dick made a face. “I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said. It seemed like the answer to everything was ' _patience, young grasshopper._ _'_

“Did that help at all? Talking about it?” she asked.

He thought about it and decided that the anger that had been simmering in his gut had subsided. Not gone away, but faded into something less likely to turn into resentment. “Yeah, a bit. Thanks,” Dick offered and kissed her on her head.

“So how is that other thing with your brother going?” Shawn asked.

Dick blinked in confusion. “Other thing? What do you mean?”

“That case you stole from Svoboda.”

He'd forgotten he'd even told her about that. “Oh. Tediously,” he reported. “Still no motive or suspects yet.”

Most of the victim's houses had already been cleared out and combed by the police so there wasn't much to find. The personal effects lists weren't helpful either, there wasn't anything interesting and none of the numbers in their phones had been suspicious. Everyone had memberships to the casinos, but who didn't in Blüdhaven? People took advantage of the free buffets, that wasn't a crime.

The only thing the vics had in common was access to some powerful people in the city assembly, but there were many projects going at any given time that it could have to do with any or none of them.

And what this had to do with the drug was a complete mystery. He was just hoping Jason could find something about that because he was at dead end.

“I'd offer an opinion, but it mostly boils down to wanting to blame the casinos for everything,” Shawn said with her brows creased in outrage. “They're lobbying for the city to turn over more land for cheap to build resorts, instead of using them for recreational and community centers and affordable housing like the city needs.”

Dick smirked, having heard this song and dance before. “It's a great opinion, but instinct only goes so far, I need evidence.”

“I was mostly joking,” Shawn shrugged, “but when it comes down to it, everything in this city revolves around the tourism and gambling since a lot of the canneries have shut down. It's all corrupt, the gangsters have got their fingers in everything, why not this too?”

“It's possible,” he admitted, though the evidence was scant. When it came down to it, he couldn't afford to narrow his focus too much. Still, it might be worth looking into the casinos. Nearly all of them were connected to organized crime, and the potential political aspects of this case suggested a group working on an agenda.

She looked up at him expectantly as they reached her apartment building. “So is that what you're doing tonight, hero?”

“Tonight? The case is stalled until something new happens, unfortunately, so it's normal patrol and grabbing more of these alien guns the Second Hand is still distributing if I can find any,” he told her. “That is unless something else comes up. ”

She hummed. “I know Nightwing is a badass, but I still worry. Telling you this may not mean much, but be careful out there.”

He smiled. “Don't say that. Knowing someone cares means a lot.”

“Sap,” she accused with a smirk. “So...do you think you've got enough time before patrol for me to show you how much you _really_ mean to me?”

A heated smile spread across his lips as Dick said, “You know what? I think I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've got a Tumblr, since apparently that's where everyone in this fandom lives. I mostly post Jason Todd stuff and occasionally some writing stuff, so if you're into Tumblr, you can head on over to https://m00nslippers.tumblr.com/ if you want. And if you need something to get excited about, next chapter is Jason's POV and has a bunch of cameos. Thank you for reading!


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